A Course for Winds of Fortune
by carryon-vs
Summary: Episode 1.01. When all his options are taken away, Dean is left to fight without his brother. Alone and bereft, Dean is faced with disturbing revelations about the Yellow Eyed Demon’s plan. But just how big is it? What Dean learns will change everything.
1. Chapter 1

Carry On...a Supernatural Virtual Season

Episode 1: A Course for Winds of Fortune

Authors: Faye Dartmouth and sendintheclowns

Disclaimer: We don't own Supernatural or it's characters, basically any characters familiar from the show. They are properties of the WB, CW and Eric Kripke.

A/N: Carry On...A Supernatural Virtual Season picks up at the end of All Hell Breaks Loose part one and then ventures on with a what if scenario that takes the Winchester brothers through heaven and hell while fighting to save the remnants of their splintered family. See our bio page for more information.

Episode Summary: The Yellow Eyed Demon had a plan in Cold Oak. A plan to see who was strongest, who would survive. A plan that left Sam Winchester dead in his brother's arms. When all his options are taken away, Dean is left to fight without his brother. Alone and bereft, Dean is faced with disturbing revelations about the Yellow Eyed Demon's plan. But just how big is it? What Dean learns will change everything.

* * *

PART ONE

Cold Oak was properly named.

The surrounding woods were deep and thick, anchored with solid oaks that had stood for years with underbrush sprouting beneath them. There were more of them once, but they were cleared away for the town, and many of them were used to construct the simple buildings that lined the empty streets.

More than the oaks, the air was always cold. A deep and pervasive cold, and the air hung heavy with wetness. The air seemed to be the oxygen of the dead, harsh and lifeless, as though it could kill from the inside out.

It was empty most of the time; the years came and went in vacancy. There was no one there to mark the passage of years, and the weathered wood on the buildings was the only testament to the rise and fall of time.

Those who came never stayed. Most of them left nothing behind at all, no evidence that they'd been there.

Some, however. Some left more than that. Some left everything they were. Left behind their sanity, their humanity, their very lives.

This night was dark. It was a cloying blackness, encapsulated with a suffocating shroud of clouds.

Then, a figure staggered into the stillness, ripping through the silence with a graceless lurch.

"Hello!" he called.

His voice echoed off the buildings, dissipating into the night.

He hurt. His shoulder ached and his back was on fire. Everything felt hazy around the edges, as though he was only just tethered to this place.

For a second, he thought he might pass out, the pain was that bad. His body was cold and hot all at once and his mind could barely focus.

He should remember this. He should know what he was trying to do. But he just knew he had to move--now. He had to get somewhere--now. He had to find someone--now. His survival depended on it.

He moved forward with a staggering gait. Suddenly walking was harder than he remembered. The pain in his back spiked and he went to his knees.

"Oh, God," he muttered. It was a prayer and a curse all at once.

He didn't have time for this. No time for this. He had to keep moving.

With a shake of his head, he went to his feet.

Dean. He needed to find Dean.

Dean was his brother. His big brother. Dean would always come for him. He always did. Where was Dean?

He moved with a new vigor, staggering forward. His arm was nearly numb now and it was getting hard to breathe.

Then he saw the light.

A light in an abandoned town--in pain and hazy, his training was still strong enough. Where there was light, there were people. _Dean_.

Feeling renewed, he went faster. Dean would make it better. Dean would make sense of this.

The dirt road beneath his feet was uneven, and he stumbled once as he moved. But it didn't stop him. Nothing would stop him. Not now. Not when he was so close.

There was something he should remember. Something that was important. But he didn't know why he was here. He didn't know where he was supposed to be. He simply knew it wasn't here. That was enough to make him want to panic, but he clung to the other thing he knew: Dean would make it right.

He was panting by the time he reached the building, puffs of cold air in the night. He could feel the anticipation building in him, reaching a desperate pitch.

He almost crashed against the doorway, feeling his body thump strongly against it. His hand grabbed at the handle, but it didn't move. Frantic, he tried again, yanking on it, but to no avail.

With a muted cry he slammed himself against the door before moving around to the side. "Hello?" he called. "Hello!"

He came to a window, pausing to pound on the glass.

"Hello!"

Then, beneath the sound of his own frantic breathing, he heard another voice. From inside.

Swallowing hard, he leaned in, peering closely. The glass was dirty and there was a veil of tattered curtains around the edges. The light was small and distant, but enough to make out the familiar form perched on a chair.

His heart leaped. "Dean!" he cried, pounding on the glass with new vigor. "Dean!"

But there was no response.

Sam's hope flickered, threatened by a surge of panic. Dean was supposed to make things right. Dean was always there, whenever something went wrong. Dean would fix things. Dean always fixed things.

But Dean didn't move. Dean didn't even look at him.

Disheartened, Sam broke off with a sob, ducking his head as despair washed over him. This didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. Dean wouldn't do this to him. Not now. Not _ever_.

Looking up again, he squinted, trying to make out what his brother was doing. Then he realized that Dean was looking at something. Watching. His brother's posture was stooped, a slow hand rubbing across his chin. Even in the dimness, it looked like he had been crying.

Confused, he peered closer and made out a figure on the bed next to Dean. It was a long figure, legs almost reaching off the end. And it was still--deathly still. The jeans looked familiar and he recognized the tan color of the jacket. He couldn't see the face--it was blocked by Dean's hunched form.

Then his brother shifted, leaning back in the chair, and he had a full view of the figure on the bed.

And he nearly stopped breathing altogether.

The pale features and closed eyes. The arms crossed not in repose, but in death. And the face--the _face_.

He knew that face.

It was _his face_.

Trembling, he stepped away, feeling faint. This wasn't happening. This was _not_ happening.

But it was. Dean leaned forward again, burying his face in his hands. His brother was crying--sobbing in earnest--and there was only one thing that could break his brother like that--

Looking down at himself, he realized with horror why he was cold. His form was translucent and he saw himself flicker.

Mouth open, he turned his gaze back to the scene before him as the reality sunk in with an inevitable weight.

He was dead.

The pounding of his heart, the gasping of his breath--it was an illusion. And the pain--phantom pain. It was why he couldn't open the door, why Dean couldn't hear his voice. It was why nothing made sense and why nothing ever would.

He wanted to cry, but didn't know how. He didn't know how to do anything.

Because Sam Winchester was dead.

-o-

Dean always watched out for Sam.

He could recount the days of his childhood, the long nights of being alone and in charge of Sam. There had been no one there to tuck Sam in except him. There had been no one to line the doorways with salt except him. Dean had taken the proper precautions and he'd told Sam the right lies to let his little brother sleep the whole night through.

Dean knew he hadn't been perfect, and, looking back, he knew it was a burden he never should have carried. But he'd never once regretted it. Because as tedious as watching after his baby brother could be, as inconvenient and cumbersome and annoying and frustrating as it could be--it was the only good thing in his life. The only thing that really made him feel complete. Sam's big brother. There was meaning to that that eclipsed everything else.

Looking at his brother now, that history made it hurt even more. Because Sam was _his _responsibility. He was a big brother by birth but Sam's protector by choice and he had never failed. Not once.

Until now.

Sam was dead.

It was a paralyzing fact, a hard truth, and Dean still wasn't sure he could believe it. Yes, he'd held Sam as his brother breathed his last. Yes, he'd carried his brother's dead weight from the streets and stretched him out on the bed. Yes, he'd looked at the wound, deep and mortal. Yes, he'd checked for a pulse, checked for breathing, checked for any sign of life and found _nothing_.

Hell, yes, he'd even laid his brother on his back, straightened his legs and crossed his arms in a position of repose.

He could even hear his voice telling Bobby that they were too late, that Sam was gone, that Sam _was gone_.

None of that made it any easier to understand. Nothing would ever make him understand life without Sam.

Dean's eyes focused on his brother's pale features and a sob shuddered through him, but he refused to give voice to it. Instead, trembling, he shook his head, looking at his hands. How long had he been sitting here? How long had Sam been lying here?

How did they get here at all?

He gave a small, bitter laugh, and looked up again. He knew how they'd gotten here. He knew too well. He knew how he'd tracked and searched for leads on Sam. He knew how he'd gleaned all the details he could from Ash and used every resource Bobby had. He'd been drawn here to find Sam and shown up thirty seconds too late. A minute earlier, and Dean could have saved his brother's life.

Tears filled his eyes again, and he didn't bother wiping them away. Instead, he stood, pacing toward the wall. When he got there, he stopped, looking back at his brother's prone figure.

He knew how Sam had gotten here--the trail of dead bodies and sulfur were clear enough signs. The disappearance of Ava Wilson was another ominous omen. The Yellow Eyed Demon had taken Sam--brought him here--but for what? To be murdered?

Why go through all the trouble? Why go to Sam's crib when he was an infant? Why kill their mother? Why all of that when all he--_it_--wanted was for Sam to die a violent and painful death on the abandoned streets of Cold Oak?

Dean sighed, shaking his head. It was more than that, though. It started in the nursery when Sam was six months old. It started the night Dean carried his brother down the stairs. It started with every monster their father hunted and every lie they told Sam. It started with all of Sam's questions and all of Dean's well intentioned cover stories. It started with the truth one lonely Christmas and it started with the painful training that would follow that. It started with Sam's doubts and objections. It started with Dean's first hunt and Sam's first scholastic award. It started with every fight between Sam and their father. It started with every time Dean tried not to take a side.

It started with Sam getting accepted to Stanford and their father telling Sam to never come back.

It started with Sam following one order and one order only.

It started with their father going missing and Sam's apartment going up in flames. It started with a dead girlfriend and a desperate need for revenge.

It started with a showdown in a cabin that Dean would never really remember and a deal their father made that Dean would never forget.

It started with all of that and more, a million things that Dean could never control, no matter how much he wanted to pretend like he could.

It ended with a knife in Sam's back.

There was a sound from behind, and Dean stiffened slightly. He didn't look to see who it was. He was pretty sure he knew and positive he didn't care. The one thing that had mattered, the one thing that had made life make sense, was dead now. Nothing would be the same.

He heard Bobby shuffle in behind, making a show of clearing his throat as he scraped across the wood floor. Dean didn't spare him a glance.

"I brought food," Bobby said, his voice gruff.

Dean glanced toward him, and watched him put a bucket of chicken on the table. He turned his gaze back toward his brother.

Bobby waited a moment, before continuing. "You've got to eat, boy."

Dean laughed a little, incredulous and bitter. "What for?"

Bobby moved next to him. "This ain't what your brother would have wanted."

That was enough to bring Dean's eyes to the older man. He raised his eyebrows. "What Sam would have wanted?" he asked. "You think Sam wanted to be dead?"

The words made Bobby recoil a little, and he pursed his lips. "You know that's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?" Dean asked shortly.

Swallowing, Bobby seemed to brace himself. His eyes flickered to Sam then settled on Dean again. "Sam died for this fight," he said. "We can't let his death be in vain."

Dean knew that logic. He knew it like a twenty-two year vendetta that their father had carried out. He knew it like his lost childhood. He knew it like a dead brother who was never coming back.

Anger vibrated through Dean, strong and almost unrestrained. "It was _all_ in vain," Dean said. "_All_ of it. No matter what we kill, no matter what we do, this will never be right. Not while Sam's dead."

Something wavered in Bobby's countenance. The passion smoldered a little, and Dean could see this hurt Bobby, too. If there was any compassion to give, Dean would have granted it. But there was nothing left in him except the painful absence of Sam's life.

"I know you're hurting," Bobby said. "Hell, _I'm _hurting. You think I don't miss him? You think I'm handling this well?" He gestured to Sam. "That boy was murdered, and we don't really know why yet, but I can tell you, it's nothing good. And we were too late to stop it. We have to deal with that. Sam would want us to deal with that."

Dean turned his eyes back to Sam, feeling the pain flare up again. There were many things Sam would have wanted. Things Sam would have done.

"The fight is coming to us whether we want to fight or not, and it's big. End of the world big," Bobby said. "We can't just--we can't just let the world end."

At that, Dean snorted, shaking his head. He turned his broken gaze back to Bobby. "It already has."

The words hit Bobby hard, and Dean watched as the resolve crumbled from Bobby's face. He nodded a little. "Don't you think we ought to--"

Dean looked at him pointedly, begging him not to say it. He couldn't hear it. He didn't want to. Not now not ever.

Bobby hesitated, but forged on. "--burn Sam's body."

Dean's heart clenched in his chest and he thought he might be sick. The thought of wrapping Sam's body, of drenching it with gasoline and taking a match to it--it was almost more than he could fathom. After all the years of pulling Sam from the fire, the idea of committing Sam to it forever--

He shuddered. "No," he said, his voice quiet. The resolve came to him more strongly. With a vehement shake of his head, the anger surged forth. "No," he said, louder this time. "We're not going to touch him."

Bobby looked a little gobsmacked, but Dean didn't care. He didn't care about anything except his brother. "Dean--"

It was full of compassion and hesitation, but Dean didn't want it. He wouldn't have it. "No," he said, almost yelling now. "Leave us alone. This is between me and Sam now, just like it always has been. He's my responsibility and I'll deal with it."

"Dean," Bobby said, and Dean could tell he was afraid. "What are you going to do?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I lost one of you--"

Dean raised his eyes to meet Bobby's one last time. There were no words for this. Dean was out of explanations. He was out of smart ass replies and never say die speeches. He was just _out_. Sam was gone, and there was no way to tell Bobby that if he lost one of them, he lost both of them.

Bobby finally nodded, and Dean could see wetness glint in his eyes. The older man dropped his gaze and sniffled loudly. "Well, if you need anything...," he said. Looking up, he seemed reluctant. "I'll go see if anyone in town knows anything and come back to check on you."

It was a compromise on Bobby's part, Dean knew that much. But ultimately, Dean didn't care. It didn't matter what Bobby did. It didn't matter what Bobby found out. The only thing that mattered was Sam, and Sam was already dead.

Looking at his brother again, Dean felt the loss ripple through him again. He heard Bobby shuffle out and the door closed, but Dean didn't move.

He couldn't. This was where he belonged. By Sam's side. For now and forever. He was Sam's big brother, his protector--

The thought made him ache.

Some protector he turned out to be. Sam was cold and stiff and _dead_, and it all happened on Dean's watch. All the promises he'd made, all the platitudes he'd offered--they'd been nothing but hollow wishes, vain hopes.

Because Sam was _dead_. He was never coming back. He'd never see his brother smile. He'd never hear his brother's laugh. He'd never have to endure another one of Sam's lame attempts at a prank. He'd never see the kid sulk, he'd never watch the way Sam's brow furrowed when he concentrated. There would be no more hunts, no more downtime, no more hopes for the future. _Nothing_.

A lifetime of purpose and duty and promises and _love_ and he had nothing left to show for it.

A lifetime of being the one person Sam could count on, and he'd let Sam down.

A fresh tear slipped from his eyes and he sat heavily in the chair by Sam's side. He could remember everything. From carrying Sam down the stairs, to watching Sam grow up--every skinned knee, every meal of Spaghetti-o's, every episode of Thundercats.

Every question. Every demand to know _why_.

Sam had never understood that he didn't really want to know. That he was better off not knowing.

Dean laughed, short and bitter. "You always wanted to know why," he said, shaking his head. He turned his eyes back to his brother. "You never understood that I was just trying to protect you. It was always my job. Dad never even had to ask me. I just...did it. It felt right. The only thing that really mattered."

His voice trailed off and the pain flared up again, almost hitting him like a blow that constricted his lungs and dug deep into the pit of his stomach. Sam's stony features looked surreal, nothing like the brother he remembered. Nothing like the four-year-old who had looked up to him. Nothing like the eight-year-old who refused to take _because _as an answer. Nothing like the teenager who was always too smart for his own good.

Nothing like _Sam_.

Because the graying corpse wasn't Sam. Not anymore. Never again.

Dean swallowed hard. "All that time, I only had one job. Not to hunt, not to be the good son. But to be your big brother. Protect Sammy." His voice broke. "And I screwed it up."

Sam would tell him it wasn't his fault. Sam would tell him to stop blaming himself.

But Sam was _dead_.

"What am I supposed to do now?" he asked, looking down, his voice ragged and heavy. Gazing up again, the stillness of his brother's body terrified him.

Rage swelled within him. "What am I supposed to do?" he asked, louder this time, almost begging an answer in his desperation.

It surged further, driving Dean out of his seat. "What am I supposed to do?" he screamed, as if he could scream loud enough that Sam could hear him--wherever Sam was.

As the burst of anger simmered, his grief hit him with fresh pain. He curled over, crashing back to his seat. A sob rippled through him and he cried hard and long. Sam was gone. Sam was _gone_. His brother, his one job--all of it. _Gone_.

It was a paralyzing grief, overpowering and encompassing. This was not a loss he would recover from. It was not a loss he could survive.

Simply, it was not one he could accept.

What was he supposed to do?

Then, out of nowhere, he knew. He knew just like his father knew. Winchesters didn't lose things like this. Dean would get his brother back--he would save Sam--no matter what it took.

-o-

Gravel kicked up under the Impala's wheels, spraying wildly in the car's wake. The car slammed into gear, engine roaring with an unusual ferocity. Headlights sliced into the night, illuminating the reckless path as the car careened into the blackness.

Dean wasn't sure how he knew where to go. He'd always had a keen sense of direction, but it was more than that. Deep and instinctive, he _knew_. His heart took him there with every aching throb in Sam's absence.

_Save him or kill him_. The last order his dad had given him. It echoed hollowly in Dean's brain. Save or kill--not let die. Never let die. Save Sam. _Take your brother outside as fast as you can_.

This was his most basic need. His most central purpose.

_Look out for Sammy_.

The car squealed to a stop, and Dean's chest felt tight. Looking out through the window, the dust was still clearing, but Dean could see the spot clear enough. Dark and lonely, the intersection of two backwater country roads.

A crossroads.

He'd mocked others for coming here. He'd resented his father for trying the same. But he understood now. He understood completely. That sometimes there was no choice. That sometimes, no matter how wrong it was, no matter how much demons should never be trusted, there was simply no other choice worth living for.

Dean's stomach twisted. All his years of fighting demons, of killing them, and he was going to call one out and offer it everything. Sam would never forgive him. His father would be so disappointed.

Dean didn't care_._

Swallowing hard, Dean pushed open his door. Numbly, he went to the trunk. He knew all the details--everything he needed. Finding the pieces was easier than it should have been, but they carried a range of products with them. The right herbs. A picture. An animal bone. The stuff of black magic that was too dangerous to dabble with.

But Dean wasn't dabbling. Dean was risking everything on this long shot; risking everything to make right the mistake he'd never get over. For Sam. Anything for Sam.

Heart pounding, he went to his knees in the center, digging with his hands. Dirt packed beneath his fingernails and the ground was hard and cold, but Dean made short work of it. Arranging the contents, he gave his own photo one lingering second glance before he piled the dirt back on.

Out of breath, he stood on shaking feet. The first step was done now. The line he never should have crossed, he'd leaped over. He'd betrayed everything he'd ever stood for. He'd made a hypocrite of himself. Standing alone at the center of the crossroads, it was all too clear to Dean how far he'd fallen.

Worse, how far he was still willing to fall.

"Come on!" he screamed into the night. "I'm right here, you bitch!"

She would come. She had to come. Dean would not fail at this. He could not fail at this.

Spinning, he held his hands out. "Come on!" he hollered again.

He stumbled wildly, and the beginning of panic flared in his chest. He'd done everything right. He'd done _everything right_.

Then, a noise.

He turned, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw her. She was different, of course, and her hair was long and dark. Her black dress was entirely inappropriate for the cool night, and Dean could see goosebumps on the girl's skin, but the calculating smile showed no similar signs of distress.

Which of course it wouldn't. This was no cocktail waitress. This was a demon.

As if seeing his train of thought, the girl's mouth smiled and her eyes went black. "Well, well," she said, shaking her head. "I almost didn't believe it, but here you are. Dean Winchester, in the flesh."

Her tone was conversational, but Dean didn't have time for games. He came here for one reason and one reason only. Demons liked the sound of their own voices, and during a normal hunt, he would listen to them as a necessary evil. But not now. Not _now_. He didn't have anything to gain from the back and forth and he had no underhanded motives.

He wanted Sam back. She had the power to do that. He'd give anything for that. Without doubt, hesitation, or a second guess.

She moved closer, gliding easily in the night. "I've had my share of surprises when it comes to these kind of calls, but I think this one definitely takes the cake," she said. "I mean, Dean Winchester? Hunter extraordinaire? What _would_ your family say if they saw you here?"

Dean went rigid. "Skip the small talk, sweetheart."

She gave him a wide-eyed look, with a pouty turn of her lips. "Oh, Dean," she said. "I had heard you had a better sense of humor. This makes me think you're here without Daddy's permission." Then she paused, smiling. "Oh, that's right. Daddy's downstairs, isn't he? He's been having a grand old time. Quite the party animal, that one. And I hear that little Sammy's out of commission, too. Too bad. I would have liked to be in on that bit of action."

Seething, it took all Dean's self control not to take her bait. "I want to make a deal."

She raised her eyebrows. "Now that's a turn I wasn't expecting."

"Well, expect this," Dean said. His gusto was gone. There would be no bartering as far as Dean was concerned. He wanted his cards laid out on the table and he wanted the trade, no matter what it cost him. "My life for Sam's. Plain and simple. No tricks, no gimmicks. Just a straight up deal."

She laughed at him. "That's tempting, it really is, but I'm afraid it's a no go there, kiddo."

Dean's chest tightened and his throat constricted. "It's a fair deal. Hell, I don't even need ten years. You can have me now."

"Wow," she said, nodding a little. "That really would be nice. I mean, a straight up soul for soul is hard to refuse."

"So don't refuse it," Dean told her.

She looked pensive for a moment, then gave a nonchalant shrug. "Lovely as it may be, I'm still forced to say no."

"Why?" Dean demanded, his voice grating so hard it cracked.

"I have my orders, just like everyone else," she told him. Then she smiled seductively. "Surely you can appreciate that."

"But you can have it _now_," Dean offered. "I'm not even asking for ten years. I'm not asking for _anything_--just Sam."

She sidled closer, looking at him longingly. "Oh, baby, you do taunt me so," she said, running a finger down Dean's cheek.

Dean shuddered at the touch, but refused to pull away. "So we have a deal?"

She leaned in closer, her lips almost brushing his cheek as she whispered in his ear. "I'm sorry," she said. "No."

Furious, Dean pulled away, grabbing at her arm in anger. "But this is what you guys do!" Dean protested.

She made no attempt to pull away, and eyed him balefully. "It does pay the bills, but there are some deals that just aren't worth making," she explained. "Not that we wouldn't love your soul, baby, because, truth be told, it's quite something. So inherently noble and pure. For all the dirty things you do in the dark, for all the blood you have on your hands, you're special, Dean. So very, very special. I'd take you any day of the week, just for kicks." She sighed a little. "But it's not up to me."

Dean was trembling so hard he could barely think. "Then who is it up to?"

Her smile was as sweet as it was feral. "We'll just say a mutual acquaintance."

Dean's hand tightened around her. "Who?"

She didn't even flinch. "I do like it when you get rough," she said. "It's such a turn on."

"Damn it," Dean cursed, shoving her hard. He stepped closer, eyeing her menacingly. "What is that you want? You name it, I'll give it to you. No questions asked."

Her eyes flashed darkly. "We have _exactly_ what we want," she said easily. "I never quite believed it myself, but they were right about your brother. Little Sammy Winchester was the one after all. Who would have thought it?"

Dean's mind scrambled to keep up, his heart pounding hard in his chest. Demons lied and demons told the truth, but they did it for the malice of it, to make people squirm. They did it to gloat and show just how much power they had. But Dean couldn't put two and two together to know exactly what she was talking about. "Would have thought what? What about Sam?"

Her face lit up, almost like a kid on Christmas morning. "Oh, it's not just about Sam," she assured him. "It's about you and Sam and your dear old daddy. For all the years you fought against demons and for all the years we wanted you all dead, and you're the ones who are going to free us all."

Dean had entertained her for Sam's sake. His patience was gone, along with his chance of bringing Sam back. All that was left was a bitter and angry shell. "What the hell are you talking about?

Her lips quirked into a sardonic grin. "Funny choice of words there, kiddo," she said. "You'll find out soon enough."

Anger surged through him, and he shook her hard by the arm. "Find out what!" he said.

She looked unimpressed. Cocking her head, she gave him a dry look. "Now that's not how you ask nicely."

He swore, pulling his gun from his waistband. He cocked it, jamming it against her head. "Tell me what I want to know or I'll blow your brains out."

She shook her head. "A gun, Dean?" she asked. "Really? When you know that bullets won't kill me?"

"No," Dean said, his face twisting with rage and he dug the gun into her temple. "But it'll sure make a nice mess."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Whoa, there," she said. "Someone needs to work on their anger management skills a bit."

"You have to the count of three," he said. "One, two--"

She held up her free hand. "Okay, okay," she relented. "You're getting yourself all worked up over things you can't change."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Want to make a bet?"

Her smile spread coldly across her face. "I don't have to bet," she said. "You can kill me and nothing will change. True, I don't really want to die, but it won't get you anywhere. All the pieces are falling into place, one right after another. I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."

"You want to see the rest of this?" Dean asked, letting the gun dig into her head. "Then tell me what you're talking about."

She pursed her lips. "You'll know soon enough," she said. "Everyone will."

"I swear to God--"

At that, she laughed. "Baby, I've seen the end of this story, and I'm not sure God's going to have much to say about this. Not when _everything _is going our way. From your daddy's trip down under to Sam biting the big one in Cold Oak. I will admit, your attempt at a deal was rather unexpected and kind of sweet. It'd make a nice little story if there were any way we could make it work."

"You still haven't told me why you won't bring Sam back," Dean said, because that was the crux of the issue. It was the reason he had come here and the reason he wasn't leaving yet.

"Sometimes death is a part of life, Dean," she told him, her voice quiet. Then, she smiled. "And, sometimes it's a part of something else."

For a moment, Dean thought he might throw up. By sheer force of will, he swallowed the bile back, making himself look at her. "Part of what?" he asked, his voice taut.

She licked her lips easily, her eyes piercing into his. "Come on, Dean," she cooed. "You know more than you're letting yourself realize. Think about it. This all started when Sam was six months old and Azazel visited your brother and killed your mommy."

"Azazel?"

"Your friend with the yellow eyes. He's more powerful than you think. Your mom never stood a chance. Neither did your dad. And neither did Sam."

He tensed, his grip nearly crushing her wrist.

She barely even flinched. "Oh, you know you've thought about it," she said. "Your daddy thought about it all the time. That's why he left you that order--to save or kill him, right?"

"Shut up," he seethed.

"Looks like you didn't do either," she told him with a smirk. "But it's not your fault, Dean. Don't beat yourself up over it. There was a plan that was bigger than you and Sam. Even bigger than your father. You weren't supposed to succeed."

"Shut _up_," he said again, more vehemently.

"You want to know, don't you?" she persisted with feigned innocence. "You demanded answers, and I can't give you a deal, but I can give you that."

"I just want my brother, bitch."

"And we just want him, too," she said. "You don't think Azazel set up all those nice, sweet kids in a psychic death match for nothing, do you?"

Dean's mind reeled. "What?"

"He brought them all," she continued. "Every surviving child. You knew some of them. Sam's friend Ava--tricky one she turned out to be. Sweet little Andy--poor guy, didn't last long. I believe you met Jake--he was the one in the fatigues running away. Turns out, he was the winner. Poor Sam came in a close second, though, and by pure voice of reason, too. Too bad this wasn't a game of reason, or Sam would have won. He would have been one hell of a lawyer. But when it comes to the last man standing, he just didn't have it in him."

It washed over him with painful clarity. Ava's disappearance. Sam's disappearance. The remote location. The realization that there were more children than he'd first known. The fact that he'd seen Sam _murdered _before his eyes. "But why?" he asked. "Why set them up like that? Why pick so many if you just wanted one?"

Her smugness faded and a look of sympathy came over her. "The best things in life are never easy," she said. She brought her hand up and caressed Dean's face. He felt his defenses weaken and his grip on the gun went lax as he dropped his hand in defeat. "Baby, you should know that by now."

It still didn't make sense. He was missing something--missing something big. "But if Sam's the one you wanted, what good is he to you dead?"

Her smile returned. "And they say Sammy's the smart one," she said. "Don't worry. Sam's right where we want him."

He shook his head, almost recoiling at the thought of Sam in Hell. His brother was too good for that, his brother had _faith--_he couldn't be there. He _couldn't_.

The weight of failure settled over him with a newfound intensity. Desperation was setting in. "Just give him back to me," he said. He had no more threats. No more replies. Just the honest request, as plain and simple as he could. "Please."

Her shoulders fell a little. "Oh, Dean," she said. "I know it seems cruel, but it'll all make sense. In fact, you'll thank me for denying you this deal. You really will. Especially since I'm giving you a front row seat to what's coming."

Dean was going to ask why and how and _please_, but like that, the air picked up and she vanished into the night.

Turning, Dean looked for her, but he was alone, the empty crossroads stretching in all directions.

_to be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

Dean didn't know how he got back to the cabin.

It was a hazy blur--all of it, back to seeing Sam fall bonelessly into Dean's arms. He remembered sensations, though. The weight of Sam's body. The coldness of his brother's skin. The determination of summoning the demon. The defeat of being told _no_.

The emptiness of a lifetime alone. A lifetime _without Sam_.

He took a shuddering breath and looked ahead. The dingy cabin was in view, just like he'd left it. He'd gone to the crossroads and counted on finding Sam alive when he got back. A Winchester miracle.

Now he had to face a Winchester failure of the worst kind. He'd offered his soul for Sam's life--it was all he had--and been denied.

Feeling sick, he let his eyes linger on the seat next to him. Sam's seat. His brother was supposed to ride shotgun, be his hunting partner.

But Sam would never sit there again. Sam would never fold his legs in to fit just beneath the dash. Sam would never roll his eyes at Dean's music and he'd never fall asleep during the long hours of the night when Dean was pushing them to morning. Sam would never do anything because Sam was gone.

The loss was so severe it literally hurt, making his stomach nausea and throbbing in his chest and head like a migraine he couldn't shake. Dean choked on a sob and let out a strangled breath.

He couldn't just leave Sam's body behind. No matter what Dean chose next, he had to take care of Sam.

Getting out of the car, Dean walked stiffly toward the cabin. He couldn't leave Sam in there, but the thought of seeing his brother like that--of seeing his brother's _corpse_--was almost more than he could handle.

But Dean was ever the dutiful soldier. He had one job and one job only: take care of Sammy.

With a shaky breath, he climbed the rickety stairs. The doorknob turned easily under his fingers and he pushed the door open before stepping inside.

"Where the hell have you been?" Bobby's voice greeted him.

Dean's eyes went to his brother, who was exactly where Dean had left him, stretched out on the bed. Sam looked worse than before, gray and stiff--rigor mortis was setting in.

Bobby was across the room in two large steps. "Damn it, boy," Bobby continued. "Answer me."

Dean turned his eyes to the older man blandly. Whatever worries Bobby had weren't Dean's concern. Not anymore.

Bobby's face twisted with something like pain. "You just up and left?" Bobby asked. "You couldn't have told me where you were going?"

Dean shrugged a little, shouldering past Bobby and moving closer to the bed where Sam was.

"Oh, no you don't," Bobby said, gripping his shoulder. He turned Dean back around. "You don't just up and leave like that. Especially not with Sam--" His voice broke off, swallowed back painfully. With a deep breath, Bobby seemed to pull himself together. He leveled his gaze at Dean. "What did you do?"

"What does it matter?"

Bobby's mouth twitched. "I know you didn't try to off yourself, because you wouldn't have left Sam like this," he said.

Dean looked up, swallowing hard.

"There ain't nothing powerful enough to bring someone back from the grave, Dean," Bobby chastised. "Nothing except..." Bobby's voice trailed off and horror washed over his features. "You didn't."

There was no point in denying it. Dean fought the swell of tears behind his eyes and shrugged. "He's my brother," he said. "It's my job to protect him."

"Protect him, not sell your soul for him," Bobby said, his eyes a little wild. He shook his head, pulling off his hat and running a hand through his hair.

"I have one job--"

Bobby cursed. "You can't still believe all the crap your daddy told you," Bobby told him hotly. "You were more to Sam than a watch dog."

"I let him die," Dean said, his voice breaking. A single tear broke free and slipped down his face. "I couldn't live with that."

"And how the hell do you think he'd feel knowing you sold your soul for him? What kind of burden would that be?"

Dean knew the burden. He'd lived it for a year. It hadn't been enough to stop him.

And none of it had been enough to make it work.

Bobby shook his head again. "You actually value yourself that little?"

Dean just snorted in reply, wiping hastily at his eyes. "Turns out I'm not the only one."

The anger on Bobby's face gave way to confusion. He cocked his head. "What are you talking about?"

Dean shrugged again. "I went to the crossroads, summoned the demon, offered her my soul for Sam's life, and she turned me down flat," Dean said with brutal honesty. "So it turns out that not only do I fail as a brother, but I'm not even good enough for demons to take me. We're reaching whole new levels of pathetic these days, aren't we?"

The news was harsh, and Dean watched as Bobby took it in. After a moment, he sniffled and nodded. "I'm sorry, Dean. About Sam," he said, his voice soft and hard. "I know you're feeling all kinds of desperate right now. But I'm not sorry that your damned fool idea didn't work."

Dean was incredulous. "Sam is _dead_," Dean shot back. "And our one shot of getting him back is _gone_."

"It wasn't a shot worth taking," Bobby told him. "I've already lost one of you and I don't aim to lose another. You boys--you're the closest thing to family I've got." He broke off and glanced tearfully to Sam. Then he looked back at Dean with resolve. "That ain't something I take lightly."

There was something reassuring in those words--promises of family and belonging--things Dean had always craved. He would trust Bobby with his life. He would lay down his own life for Bobby's sake.

But Dean wasn't the same man without his brother.

Suddenly, Bobby's comfort seemed wrong. Repulsed, Dean shivered, turning away from Bobby again. Instead, he focused on his brother. "It doesn't matter now," he said.

He heard Bobby take a breath. Then, Bobby shifted. "I think maybe we ought to get you some food now," he said.

Dean just shook his head.

"Come on," Bobby cajoled. "You need to keep your strength up."

Perplexed, Dean turned to him. "For what?"

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "For what's coming," he said.

It was clear that Bobby still didn't get it. "What's coming doesn't matter," Dean said flatly. "If you haven't noticed, Sam's dead. There's nothing worth fighting for."

Bobby hesitated a little, his forehead wrinkling. "Dean, Sam's death--it's...worse than I could imagine," he ventured slowly. "But it's part of what I'm talking about. I told you about the demonic activity and whatever took Sam was a part of this. Something's gearing up. And we've got to do something about it."

Dean gave a bitter smirk. "I don't care," he muttered. It was already over for him. There was nothing for him to fight for. Nothing that he could win that mattered.

"You don't mean that, son," Bobby told him quietly. "You're just hurting--"

The softness of Bobby's voice infuriated him, and Dean spun on the older man, shoving him roughly. "Hurting? You think I'm just _hurting_? My brother is _dead_. What makes you think I care at all about what happens next?"

Bobby did not rise to Dean's taunts. Instead, he raised his chin and held Dean's eyes with his own. "Because Sam would want you to," he said.

"Sam's _dead_," Dean told him definitely, turning away from Bobby again.

"Exactly," Bobby said. "Sam's _dead_. And he died in this fight. We may not know why, but I know Sam fought for the good until the end. He would never let you pussy foot around while the world was ending--no matter what."

Grief surged with anger inside of him and he sneered at Bobby. "Well, then," Dean said. "Maybe Sam should have thought about that before he took a knife in the back."

Bobby snorted a little, soft and disbelieving. "You're a lot of things, Dean," Bobby said in a low voice. "But a quitter ain't one of them."

"Yeah?" Dean asked. "Watch me."

"I'd like to see you try," Bobby said. "You think I don't know you, but I do. I know how you raised that boy. I know how you doted on him. I know that if there was something out there, Sam was always your first thought. Even when he was being a pain in the ass, you put him first. Even when you didn't want him to know it, you still put him first. Even when your damn stubborn father told you not to, he was all you cared about. So you won't turn your back on him now. You can't. It's not in you."

Dean listened with crumbling resolve. He felt tears threaten again and he looked at Bobby, shaking his head. "I did everything I could," he said. "I offered my very _soul _for him. What else am I supposed to do?"

Bobby pressed his lips together and stepped closer, leaning into Dean. "Fight," he said. "You fight so Sam's death isn't in vain. You fight so Sam has a legacy worth remembering."

The urge to cry was stronger now, almost breaking Dean in half. "Bobby, I don't think I can," he confessed finally.

Bobby put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "I know you can," he said. "And you know I'm right. You have always been strong enough to do this alone."

Dean's breath caught in his throat. He remembered this conversation from a dark night in Palo Alto.

_I can't do this alone._

_Yes, you can._

_Yeah, but I don't want to_.

It was still true--all of it. But this time, he didn't have a choice. This time there was no other path except one he would walk by himself.

"Dean," Bobby said. "If there were any other way--"

It was a horrible truth. A painful reality. There wasn't any other way. There never would be. Dean was a soldier at heart. More than that, he was a Winchester. Being the last one standing didn't change that. It just changed his focus. He was a man without something to lose. There were no lines he wouldn't cross now, no risks he wouldn't take. He could fight this battle and win for Sam--for Sam and his father and his mother. He could avenge them.

If not, he'd die trying.

He won either way.

He sucked in a breath, stilling his nerves and trying to push back the hurt. He didn't want this path, but he never had. There were no other options. Saving Sam's life was no longer in the equation. He'd been denied the deal. Dean had been around long enough to know the other tactics wouldn't work. There was no black magic strong enough to do more than reanimate Sam's corpse. Controlling a reaper might prevent death, but it wouldn't bring someone back from the dead.

No, Sam was dead. There would be no reversing that.

Dean had to ask himself how he wanted to live the rest of his days. Away from the fight, he might have years and he would accomplish nothing. Suicide was a coward's way.

The fight was the only answer. It was the only reprieve, not from the fate that had befallen him, but from facing the aftermath of it.

Finally, he nodded, small and certain, the growing sense of inevitability coming over him. "Okay," he said quietly.

The relief on Bobby's face was palpable. "I've got a couple of leads I want to research back at my place,' Bobby told him.

"There's something I have to do first."

Bobby stilled and nodded, his eyes flickering to Sam. "I can help you--"

Dean shook his head. "No," he said, his voice firm. "This is something I have to do on my own."

It was clear Bobby wanted to protest. "Dean," he said.

Dean wouldn't budge on this point. "Sam's my responsibility," he said.

"I'm not sure you should be alone," Bobby admitted.

At that, Dean had to laugh, short and bittersweet. "What am I going to do, huh?" he asked. "No one wants my soul. I'm not doing Sam any favors dead. So, you're stuck with me."

It wasn't a ringing endorsement, Dean knew that much, but it was all he had.

Reluctant, Bobby nodded. "Okay," he said. "I'll head on back and you can meet me there when you're ready. Just don't take too long."

Dean just nodded in return.

"And you call if you need anything," Bobby said. "I can be back here in three hours--two, if it's an emergency."

It was a generous offer, a sign of caring that Dean wished could mean more. "I can handle it," Dean told him.

With another breath, Bobby continued, "Okay. I guess I'll see you."

Dean didn't have a reply. Bobby lingered a moment longer before turning. He hesitated at the doorway, giving Dean a fleeting look before letting his eyes rest on Sam. Then the older man turned back toward the door, slipping out into the cold, shutting it behind him with a muted thunk.

Alone, Dean drew a steadying breath. He'd been trying to avoid this, trying to find ways around it. There was no way around it, though. This was Dean's fate, and all he could do was live up to it as best he could. Just like Sam would want him to.

He looked at his brother. He'd spent a lifetime looking out for that kid. He'd spent years getting to know him, inside and out. He knew what the scar on Sam's left forearm was from. He knew where the dimples lit up Sam's face when he smiled. He knew the way Sam pushed his hair out of his face when he was focused.

Never again. Sam was gone. Sam's body was nothing more than rotting flesh, and it was time to let it go.

The road ahead of him could offer him redemption. It could give him the chance to avenge his family. It could make him a hero, once and for all.

But the one thing Dean wanted--the one thing he needed--was the one thing he could never have, ever again.

-o-

The sky was starless, leaving the air sharp and cold. A fire crackled, sending flickers of light across the barren landscape.

Jake hadn't gone far, but far enough. He didn't want to be anywhere near that town--and not just because he'd been chased out by a man with a gun.

But because of what he'd done there. _Murderer_.

Sure, he'd killed people before. Being in combat, it was sort of unavoidable. And sure, he'd even killed that Ava girl right before she had a chance to off Sam. That was the noble kind of killing. Doing it on behalf of a brother in arms, in the defense of another.

But he'd made a choice when it came to Sam. Only one of them was going to walk out of that town alive and Jake was a survivor, first and foremost. He didn't grow up on the south side of Chicago and make it out alive and untarnished without that attitude. And he sure as hell didn't survive the countryside of Afghanistan without having the will to live embedded into his very soul.

But _murder_. Knowing he'd have to kill Sam even when Sam wanted to do it together. Choosing to ignore Sam's pleas for reason and go after him anyway.

Worse, knowing Sam had the chance to kill him and hadn't taken it. It was Sam's weakness. Why Sam hadn't deserved to win.

Jake had exploited it easily, taken the knife and killed Sam before the kid had a chance to know what hit him. Right through the spine. A textbook perfect kill.

Just like that, Jake had won. He'd survived.

Somehow, it didn't make him feel better.

As soon as he was sure he was a safe distance from his pursuer, he'd stopped. After emptying his stomach for about ten minutes, he'd found a stream, taken a drink, and gotten his bearings. He still wasn't sure where he was or how far from civilization he was; moreover, he wasn't certain that finding help was really the best option. After all, he was the murderer here, and with the story he had to tell? Being demonically lifted from his unit overseas to participate in a psychic smackdown?

Hell, he hardly believed it and he'd lived it.

No doubt, there'd be questions, and ones he wasn't sure he could give an answer to. If the army found him, he could only imagine what trouble he'd have with that. He could try to go home, see his mother and his sister, but he didn't want to involve them with this.

He huddled closer to the fire, wishing he had something resembling supplies. He'd still had the matches in his fatigues, but even with the fire, he still felt numb.

To think, he mused bitterly, his mother had been terrified of him joining the army. Said it was the best way to get himself killed that she could think of. She was convinced he was going to get blown up by a terrorist.

Yet, two years in the service, and Jake hadn't suffered more than a bruised ankle in a pickup basketball game. He was the one who was the killer. Always in self defense--until now.

Never like this. Never with a knife in the back. It was a coward's victory. There was no honor in it.

But it was part of the game. He couldn't change the rules. He could just use them to his own advantage. He was stronger than Sam--he'd proven that. He didn't know what the demon wanted, but he knew that if anyone could beat the son of a bitch, it was him. He had the strength to do it. He had the courage to do whatever was necessary.

Didn't he?

Suddenly, the fire surged, sending a spray of sparks into the night. Jake jerked, shuddering to full alertness.

He was too late. The figure was standing across from him before he had a chance to even attempt to arm himself.

Jake recognized him, and his body tensed with anger. "You," he said, his tone dark.

The demon smiled, a disturbingly friendly smile. "Jake," he said. "I'm impressed."

Fear made him stiff, but Jake forced himself to swallow it back. He won't give this _thing_ the pleasure. With a defiant tilt of his chin, he met its yellow gaze with all the gusto he could muster. "I'm going to kill you."

The demon nodded in a rather avuncular fashion. "That seems like quite an ambitious goal," he said. "Noble, really. But, you know, I just have one question: how?"

It didn't matter how. A knife in the back, punching his nose through his brain--anything.

The demon shrugged a little. "I know you're super strong there, kiddo, and you're going to pick up on the rest of this stuff just like that," he said, snapping his fingers. "Ava was right about that. A little crazy, that one, but she was right about that. But, still. I'm afraid I won't be quite as cooperative as certain other people. You know, turning my back on you after giving you a deadly weapon. You do have to give the kid credit for his trust, though, which is something you certainly seem to lack."

Jake felt himself trembling, but kept his gaze fierce. "What are you talking about?"

The demon made a dismissive move of his head. "Doesn't matter," he said. Then, he grinned. "I was counting on this, you know. Sammy has always been sort of my pet project, but you, Jake. You impressed me. I knew Sam wouldn't win, but I didn't know who would. And you--well, you did everything I could have hoped, and you did it with _style_. I was a little worried when Sam broke out the puppy eyes on you, but no--you're made of _steel_. Severed his spinal cord, nice and neat. Horrible way to go, though. Painful, terrifying, and completely incapacitating. So kudos to you for the originality."

Jake felt his anger mount, mixing painfully with his despair. "Shut up," he seethed. He'd done what he had to do to survive. Nothing more, nothing less. That was all there was to it--Jake had to believe that.

"Aw, Jake," the demon said. "Second thoughts about your magnificent victory?"

Swallowing, Jake kept his jaw steady with sheer force of will. "No."

"Good," the demon said, with true encouragement in his tone. "Because we have business to discuss."

Jake almost physically recoiled and his stomach churned. "I have nothing to say to you."

"But I have everything to say to you."

It was all Jake could handle. He had learned the hardships of self control over his lifetime, but he had his limits. He lunged, springing forward with all his might. Even weaponless, he was powerful, and he knew it. He had to try.

But it wasn't enough. Jake felt himself hit an invisible barrier and his body was slammed into stillness. He was caught, mid-lunge, and frozen in place. His chest hitched painfully against it, and he sought for his strength with everything he had, but it wasn't enough.

The demon shook his head, tsking slightly. "You're a strong guy," he said. "But you're not stronger than me."

Then, the demon flicked his finger, and Jake felt his feet leave the ground. He was suspended mid-air, and Jake realized with a horrible clarity how wrong he'd been.

He didn't know how to kill this demon. He didn't even know how to defend himself. He could kill Ava and Sam and any other _human_, super powered or not, but this _thing_ was something beyond him. A force he couldn't fight against.

"Now that you're listening," the demon continued, leaving Jake in the air, "I can explain my proposition."

Jake sneered, and clung to the vestiges of his defiance. "Go to Hell."

"Been there, done that," the demon said nonchalantly. "And right now we're focused on _you_. And what you have the power to do. The thing is, this trick right here? Doesn't have to work on you. You have the power to fight it. You even have the power to overcome it. With some training, you could be unstoppable--to _anything_. Demon, human, you name it."

It was a tempting thought right about then--to have a way to defend himself. He had felt confident among humans. He'd felt confident around machine guns and land minds. But this helplessness was foreign to him--and unnerving as hell.

But this was a compromise he couldn't make. He'd killed one person in cold blood, but he couldn't sacrifice his soul. He'd fought too hard to live to give up himself this easily.

He shook his head. "No," he said.

The demon sighed. "Still clinging to that pesky human morality," he said. He shook his head. "You're not quite human anymore, Jake. It's about time you embraced it."

Jake didn't want to know. He didn't want to know anything. He just wanted to go home. To get away from here. To forget this ever happened.

It was despair, and Jake knew it. A day ago, he would have mocked himself for this weakness. But he could still feel Sam's spine snapping, and he could still see the other man's boneless fall to the ground, and it made him sick. Some lines shouldn't be crossed. Some lines had to stay firm. Jake could see that now. He could feel it in every fiber of his being.

He shook his head, finding whatever resolve he had left. "No."

With that, the demon rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine," he muttered. "Stay pathetic. That's your choice. I just have one more thing I need from you and then you can go on your merry way."

It was too easy_. _There was a catch. He ground out, "No."

The demon just laughed. "Quite the broken record," he said. "Just get your rest tonight. Let the fire burn and sleep all this off. I'll find you in the morning and we'll get down to business."

"Why should I?"

At that, the demon raised his eyebrows. "Because you have no choice," he said. "Try to run, if you want, but I can find you, just like I found you in Afghanistan. Try to contact anyone, and they might unfortunately end up a little bit dead when I come for you. And you really don't want _more _blood on your hands, do you?"

Jake's conscious twisted, and he had no response.

"I thought so," the demon said. The he flicked his wrist and Jake crumpled to the ground. "Sleep well."

By the time Jake was able to sit up, the night was empty. The only sound was the crackling of the fire, dancing in the darkness.

Uncertain, Jake pulled himself together. Sitting, he held his knees to his chest and leaned in closer to the fire. He had nowhere to go. No power strong enough to fight this. He was as much a victim as Sam was, and he just hadn't realized it until now.

Feeling numb, Jake watched the flames as the night stretched on toward morning.

-o-

The field was open, and there were no signs of life, not even in the distance. Dean worked to the backdrop of crickets, which buzzed persistently, even as the sun rose and peaked, burning hot in sky as the day wore on.

There were trees in the distance, and Dean could hear the faint sound of water from a stream nearby. He'd searched all morning for the right spot, and this was the first one that had fit the bill. Remote, yet open. Away from Cold Oak, but still not close enough to another town that anyone would see.

The Impala and the rest of his supplies were parked at the edge. There was a dirt road, which was rutted and hard to follow, but Dean had used it all the same. He'd left the windows open to keep the interior as cool as he could while Sam's body waited in the back.

Dean didn't know how long he'd been there. He didn't care. His muscles ached with the exertion, but he worked through it. The stones were hard to find and even harder to lug together. Fitting them together took time and thought, and it would be easier to make small and short, but Dean won't let himself take short cuts. Not on this.

No, the pyre needed to be perfect. He didn't care if he had to smooth the stones to fit or mine them out of the ground himself, he had to get this right.

He built, rock after rock, working until the pyre stood tall and sturdy. Dean's fingers were bloody and Dean almost thought there were no rocks left in the state of South Dakota, but Sam deserved this much.

No, Sam deserved a lot more, but this was all Dean could give him now.

Wiping his brow, he collected the wood next. It was easier to find these--an assortment of dry sticks and leaves, just enough to create a bed of tinder.

Standing back, he looked at it, eyeing it carefully. It looked like it should, simple yet effective. He wished there was something more he could do to make it distinctive. Something to make it special.

Something to make it worthy of Sam's remains.

Collecting a breath, he grabbed his leather jacket. He'd discarded it much earlier. Holding it now, he took it to the pyre, laying it out over the sticks, as if to soften the surface. Sam would appreciate the comfort, he had to think.

Then, he looked back toward the car. With a shaky breath, he knew that it was time.

With tired steps, he went back. It was awkward work, but still important. Pulling Sam's body out, he spread his brother out on the ground. Carefully, Dean gathered the blankets he could find, swathing Sam in them. It took more than one to cover Sam's full frame, and Dean had to lift and roll Sam several times to create a tight fit.

He wrapped Sam tight, binding the long legs together and encasing Sam's arms across his chest. As he finished Sam's head, he gave his brother one last look. The features were distorted now, marred with the onset of deterioration, but Dean could still see his brother. He could still see traces of the man Sam had been. The boy Dean had raised.

It was bittersweet, and Dean finished the wrapping with blurred vision and shaking fingers.

Looking over his work, the figure was longer than Dean had expected. His little brother wasn't so little any more.

If Dean were honest, he knew Sam wasn't the same little brother he once was either. No, Sam was strong and able and smart. Hell, Sam was brilliant. And loyal. For all the crap Dean had given him, Sam was fierce in his love. Dean had seen that all along, but had never wanted to acknowledge it.

Because while Sam had always been more than family, that didn't mean that family didn't mean everything to Sam. It had hurt them both when Sam went to Stanford, and Dean had known that all along. He just didn't want to admit that Sam might have been right about some things, that they could exist apart. Dean wanted all or nothing, and when asked to choose between the only two people who had ever mattered to him, it was hard not to resent that Sam had put them in that situation.

But Sam had just wanted a chance. Maybe Sam had always understood that family was only as strong as its weakest link, and he wanted to make himself better before he could fit in with the rest of them. Sam hadn't left for normal. He'd left for safety.

Looking at his brother's mummified remains, Dean couldn't help but wonder now if Sam had been right all along.

If he could do it again, he wouldn't have resented Sam so much.

If he could do it again, he wouldn't have let Sam believe it was all his fault.

If he could do it again, he wouldn't have called Sam the selfish one. Not when he was no more selfish than Dean, who put himself first when push came to shove. So much so that he'd tried to sell his soul, no matter what it would have done to Sam.

And Dean would still do it. Anything to bring Sam back.

Because Sam didn't deserve to be dead. In Sam's moment of desperation, he'd trusted someone who had stabbed him in the back. Dean still didn't know why, but he did know that it was typical Sam. His brother always wanted to give someone the benefit of the doubt, until they irrevocably proved him otherwise.

Like their father saying _if you go, stay gone_.

Like a knife delivering a killing blow Sam never saw.

And now, Dean had to give his brother's soul the rest he'd earned by that trust.

It took work to carry Sam across the field, and even more to hoist Sam up onto the pyre. By the time he was done, Dean was crying and sweating until his vision was so badly blurred, he could barely see.

Seeing Sam on the pyre, his body bound, Dean wanted to take the cloth off for just one more look. One last glance at his brother.

He didn't need to. This body wasn't Sam. Not anymore.

No, whatever was left of Sam, the _real_ Sam, was in Dean's mind--locked in his memories, and stored in his heart. Cleaved into his very soul.

And he always would be.

Dean swallowed hard, wondering if he should say something. It was a funeral, after all. But there were no words to say. Nothing would make this better. Nothing would make this different. Dean had to accept what he could not change and move on. Sam would never want his speeches.

Resolved, Dean stepped away. He picked up the gasoline and moved back toward his brother's body. Dousing the wrapped figure liberally, he discarded the can. Then, with shaking fingers, he dug in his pocket and pulled out his matches.

It took two strikes to bring the match to flame, and it burned brightly in the fading daylight. He watched it burn for a long moment, edging toward his finger. Before it could burn his fingers, he flicked it toward the pyre in one smooth motion.

The tinder caught and the fire sprang to life, illuminating the growing dimness. Dean had to step back, away from the smoke. His eyes burned with it, and the stench in his nostrils was almost enough to make his stomach turn.

But he didn't move. Couldn't move. He watched as the fire consumed. It took all the kindling quickly, burning through it and starting in on the cloth. Then it took his brother's body whole, spreading across it with a striking and irreversible speed.

It started with fire when Sam was six months old and now Dean would commit his brother's soul to the flames once and for always.

He couldn't be sure where Sam was. He couldn't be sure where Sam would go.

His jaw clenched, and he wondered if Sam had found his peace, after all. Sam had believed--Sam had dared to hope--

And he had never wished his brother was right like he did right then.

He could almost hear Sam's voice.

_Hope's kind of the whole point, Dean_.

He had to hope that his brother meant it. He had to hope that he could believe it, too.

Dean watched with tears in his eyes but he didn't cry. He barely moved as the fire raged on, burning brighter and stronger with each passing moment.

Dean watched until the sky went black and the smoke billowed into the night and there was nothing left but ash.


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

The air was still outside but Dean could tell the pressure was dropping as his ears popped. It had to be one hell of a storm approaching. He wished it would hurry up and get here already--maybe it would ease the tension inside some.

He choked back a bitter laugh. As if that were possible. Given that he'd just burned Sam's body no more than three days ago and was currently poring over texts trying to figure out why the hell it had all happened, tension seemed to be the least of his problems.

Dean's eyes were scratchy from lack of sleep and his shoulders were stiff from leaning over the table. It didn't matter. He wouldn't let it matter.

Distracted, he rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, rolling his shoulders and arching his back for good measure. It didn't do anything to clear his cluttered mind but it gave his eyes a much needed break from staring at the dusty, moldy tome in his hand. He and Bobby had been going through every source they could lay their hands on that might tell them what old Yellow Eyes was up to right now.

So far, in a battle between human will and ancient texts, Dean was pretty sure the texts were winning. But that didn't stop them from pushing on.

After all, what else did Dean have to do? Sam wasn't here anymore and he wasn't coming back. Having failed at his prime objective—keep Sam safe—the only thing Dean could do now was stop the demon's plot.

Vengeance. Justice. The Winchester way.

Dean felt the heat of Bobby's eyes on him as he flipped the page, but he doggedly ignored it. It'd been a tact he'd used since he'd gotten here. It was Bobby's doing that he was here at all, and it was about as much as he could muster after witnessing his brother's murder. Sam had died in his arms and Dean had burned him, so the fact that Bobby had other things on his mind was about more than Dean could tolerate.

He let it go a few more pages until he couldn't take it any longer. He'd come here, just like Bobby had requested. He'd holed up to _research_ because of Bobby's insistence. It was hard enough still feeling the fading throb of Sam's heartbeat resounding through him without the added attention of the older hunter. The unwanted focus made Dean want to explode, the pressure inside of him building to compensate for the weather's drop in pressure outdoors.

Dean hadn't realized how much the quiet sighing and stares bothered him until his voice, raspy from little use, bit out an impatient, "What?"

Bobby shifted uneasily in his chair behind his desk, tugging at the cap on his head. The cap handling was the tell that tipped Dean off to how unsettled the older hunter was at the moment. Bobby tended to do that in times of great stress--a surefire tic that made him a piss poor poker player when it counted.

Of course, right now was _stressful_, what with Sam's death and signs of impending demonic activity, but nothing had changed much in the three days since he'd said his last goodbyes to Sam with the funeral pyre so it was about time for Bobby to just let it go. Dean was here, he was playing the good hunter, the avenging brother, and it was more than Dean had wanted to give in the first place.

Bobby tightened his lips, hesitating.

Setting the book on his lap, Dean crossed his arms and stared Bobby down. He didn't have the time or patience for this. Not now.

After another rearrangement of the faded red cap, Bobby pushed his own book away from him. "It's just…"

When Bobby's voice trailed off, Dean raised an eyebrow at him. They didn't really have time for this nonsense but there was no way Dean could get anything done while under constant surveillance.

Scowling back at him, Bobby cleared his throat and began again, "I guess I'm worried about you, Dean. All you do is research, you barely take time to eat, or shower."

At that Bobby paused and crinkled his nose with disgust, but it melted into worry.

Dean plucked his flannel shirt away from his body and gave it a good sniff. Point to Bobby. He was a bit rank. But demons taking over the world kind of trumped good hygiene in his opinion.

Besides, nothing changed the fact that Sam was still dead. Dean could wash up, eat a good meal, and to what end? Sam would still be dust in the wind.

The thought made Dean feel cold inside, and he hardened his face. "What do you want from me, huh? You wanted me to fight so that---" Dean had to pause as he swallowed past the uncomfortable lump clogging his throat but he kept his voice level and mild, "and I'm right here, fighting."

"I said fighting, not driving yourself right into the ground, boy," Bobby growled, eyelids lowered and laser precision stare burrowing into Dean. "It's like being around J…"

Bobby's low voice trailed off uncomfortably again. Heat built in Dean's face and he cursed his body's reaction. Either he let his temper flare or he'd fall victim to another fit of crying and he was done crying. Crying wasn't going to bring back his brother. Or his dad. Or his mom.

No, Dean was alone. For now and for always. "Go ahead, say it," he challenged, lifting his chin in defiance.

Bobby broke eye contact, staring down at his desk instead, with something like guilt apparent in his disposition.

The tension had snapped now, and there was no turning back. Dean barreled on. "It's like being around Dad," he said. Then, he smirked, shaking his head. "I tried to understand what made Dad like that, but I don't think ever really got it, until now. I have to focus. I don't know any other way. And you're the one who told me to move on, so take it or leave it."

Bobby's voice was quiet. "You know I only want what's best for you, son."

With the use of the word son, Dean's head snapped back up, and he glared at Bobby.

The older hunter didn't flinch this time. "It's what Sam would have wanted."

Chewing the inside of his cheek to check his response, Dean forced himself to count silently to ten. And then twenty. On his way to thirty, the heat of temper was dissipating and in its place came cold resolution. Bobby kept playing the Sam card and like Pavlov's dog, Dean kept rising to the bait. But damn it, honoring Sam by stopping Yellow Eyes was all Dean had left to hold on to. Sam was but a pile of ash and if Dean dwelled on that fact, he'd be useless.

He needed to put Bobby in his place, though. On the verge of making his feelings known on the subject of using his brother as a carrot on a stick, Dean' response was cut off before he could make a sound. A sudden noise outside—metal settling loudly in the junkyard loudly—had both men reaching for their weapons and moving toward the door in tandem.

Bobby's scowl appeared permanent, his jaw set in implacable lines, the intrusion onto his land a personal affront. "Nothing could've made it past the wards on my property."

Both men stood on either side of the door, ears straining to pick up any noise from outside. When another crash sounded with a muted thud, Dean's mouth pulled into a tight smile. "I beg to differ with you there, Bobby."

Rolling his eyes, Bobby motioned to Dean through the door first while Bobby covered him. Using the same hand signals as their Marine dad, Bobby indicated that Dean should circle around a hunk of wasted yellow Volkswagen Rabbit while Bobby went the other way. They smoothly executed maneuvers, moving through the salvage yard, until they were both circling around an area emitting occasional faint noises.

Dean sighted down his Taurus while Bobby did the same with his sawn-off, careful to avoid each other's potential crossfire. "We've got you covered you yellow bellied bastard so you might as well show yourself," Bobby said, voice steely with mistrust.

There was a muffled curse and a puff of dust. "Hold your fire, you nasty old reprobate," a familiar feminine voice said. "It's me, Ellen."

Dean held his weapon steady as the brunette woman pushed herself to her feet, brushing dirt from her jeans.

It looked like Ellen Harvelle and sounded like Ellen Harvelle but Dean wasn't feeling so trusting these days. His voice was joined by Bobby's as they simultaneously spoke one Latin word, "Christo."

Ellen was facing Bobby but Dean could tell she didn't flinch and when Bobby's face crinkled into a grin, Dean knew her eyes hadn't flashed black. Bobby stared over Ellen's shoulder, indicating that they should escort Ellen inside. Dean shrugged, lowering but not holstering his weapon; Ellen had passed one hurdle but there were a few more to go before Dean was completely satisfied.

The trio silently went inside, Bobby and Dean pausing to let Ellen enter first. Bobby told her to head into the kitchen and she successfully walked under the Devil's Trap on the ceiling without incident.

"Pull up a chair, make yourself comfortable," Bobby said, gesturing to the table. "Let me get you something to drink and then you can tell us what you're doing here."

Bobby was already digging in his cupboard for glasses so he missed the way Ellen's face pulled into a frown, her eyes filling with moisture. It didn't take Ellen but a second to compose herself, throwing her shoulders back and willing the tears away. Dean was leaning against the doorjamb and saw the expressions flit over Ellen's face. He was impressed with the woman. He wanted to know what Ellen was doing away from her bar in Nebraska but he wasn't feeling very social and decided to stand back and let things unfold.

Bobby smacked a shotglass of clear liquid on the table in front of the disheveled woman. Despite her rumpled state, she held herself with dignity. "This what I think it is?" Bobby nodded and Ellen picked it up, smoothly gulping down the holy water.

When nothing happened, Ellen turned to Bobby, "Can I have some of that single malt whiskey you've got tucked away somewhere? It's been a hell of a long day and I could really use it."

A couple of rounds later and Dean had even deigned to sit at the table. Ellen was settling in to share her story, a tall glass of water in front of her to counter the alcohol. "We ran out of potato chips. Can you believe it? A bar running out of snack food. So I ran into town. On my way back to the bar, I could see thick black smoke billowing into the sky. I knew something bad had happened but I had to see it with my own eyes." Ellen paused to take a long pull of water, pushing the lank hair from her face. The gesture reminded him of his brother and his lips thinned in response—

Dean felt the pain flare anew. The reminders were everywhere. In everything Dean did. In every place Dean went. With every book he read, with every conversation he had--Sam was there. Sam was _always _there. And each time it hurt less than the last to remember the grey pallor of Sam's face and the bright glow of the fire in the dying daylight.

Ellen took another swig before drawing a deep breath. "I pulled into the parking lot and it was—The whole building had been blown to kingdom come. Ash…" she paused, swallowing audibly, "he didn't make it out alive. As far as I know, I was the only survivor."

Dean could hear the pain in her voice, and recognized it. He felt a pang of sympathy. "What about Jo?" At one time he'd thought about romancing the feisty blond but he couldn't enter into any kind of a relationship, not with demons after his family.

And now Dean was the only one of his family left.

Ellen smiled bitterly. "Jo, she's out hunting. After her little escapade in Philadelphia with you, she took off." She shook her head. "Never thought I'd be so grateful that she wasn't around."

Before she could continue, Bobby interjected, "So why do you think your place was targeted?"

Ellen's face grew somber again. "All I know is that Ash was on to something big and I think someone, or _something_ knew, and destroyed the Roadhouse because of it." Ellen's head dropped down, her hair obscuring her face.

Dean pushed back the memory of someone else doing the same thing, ignoring the pang in his heart. "Big how?"

Ellen's shoulders dipped. "I don't know everything, but Ash was on the trail of a demon. Something powerful. He was tracking things all over the country and he left this in the Roadhouse's safe." She reached into the inner pocket of her jean jacket, smoothing out crumpled paper on the scarred table. "I know it's a map of Wyoming and the X's represent frontier churches built by Samuel Colt." Dean's fingers thrummed on the table impatiently and Ellen looked at him. "That mean something to you?"

Dean wasn't sure how much he trusted Ellen, not sure how much he trusted anyone. But he and Bobby needed more allies. "Samuel Colt created a gun, a gun that can kill anything. And I mean anything. Apparently he knew all about hunting. If Colt built those churches, I'm sure he built them there for a reason."

Bobby was on his feet, retreating toward his library. A few mumbled cusses later and he was returning with a book tucked under his arm. He plunked it down in the middle of the table, flipping briskly through the pages. "Here, this an old cowboy cemetery and it sits in the middle of the area on Ash's map."

Twirling the book around, Dean stared at the picture. He tuned out the voices of Ellen and Bobby as he read the script under the picture. According to the book, railway lines connected all of the churches. Snatching up the map, he concentrated on the five X's. "Bobby, can I have a pen?"

He wasn't completely sure but he figured if he ruined the map, Bobby would have a replacement for it, so he started drawing lines, connecting the churches. It was much easier to see with the blue ink—the lines connecting the churches formed a pentagram. A giant devil's trap was staring them smack in the face.

Bobby clapped him on the shoulder and Ellen's hand reached across the table and patted his wrist. Amidst the atta boys, Dean could only think of one thing: _Sam should be here for this_. Sam would have recognized the devil's trap instantly, would have already been putting together a plan.

Ellen was asking Bobby what the demons could possibly want with a cowboy cemetery and Bobby was saying the only way to find out was to go to Wyoming while Dean let the excited babble wash over him.

Rising to his feet when the other did, Dean found himself face to face with an exhausted looking Ellen. "Honey, where's Sam?"

The question Dean had been dreading. The question Dean would be facing for the rest of his days.

There was no easy way to say it. There was no explanation that did it justice.

So Dean swallowed hard, quelling the nausea that threatened his stomach, and offered her the best answer he could: "He didn't make it."

The words were cold. Brutal. His face shuttered. But he discovered saying the words out loud didn't make him any more miserable.

He couldn't get any more miserable.

Warm arms encircled his neck briefly and Dean endured the contact stiffly.

Sam was gone and all the _sorries_ in the world wouldn't change it.

It was time to cowboy up. Something big in Wyoming awaited them.

-o-

Jake tilted his head back and looked at the stars dotting the clear night sky. He could make out Orion, the Hunter and just thinking about it made him smile. He and his little sister liked to star gaze together. It was their thing. The one thing the two very different siblings enjoyed doing together.

He wondered if he'd ever see Jalynn again. Or his mother.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he wondered if he even deserved to. All in all, this whole superpowers thing royally sucked.

"I thought I told you to get some rest," a smooth voice interrupted his thoughts. "I need you in tip top condition for my end game here. You play the starring role."

Startled, Jake tensed, but there was nothing he could do. He realized suddenly that he wasn't at his campfire anymore. Heart in his throat, he tried to take in his surroundings--the dirt road, the line of trees, the shoddy railroad crossing sign in front of him.

And the man.

No, the _demon_—complete with the yellow eyes.

Resisting the urge to shudder, Jake grimaced. Jake was tired and missed his family. He wanted to go home, not play these stupid games. "Why did you bring me here?"

The demon smiled, with a disturbing cordiality. "Someone's lost their sense of humor," he said. "You really are a sore winner."

Jake clenched his teeth. "You made us kill each other."

The demon shrugged. "I set you to it, but I do believe that you all did the killing."

Jake tried not to think of the muted gasp Sam gave or the way the knife caught resistance as it struggled to sever Sam's spine.

"Anyway, what's done is done, and we're ready for round two," the demon continued. "So, listen up closely, Jake, my boy, because I have one last task for you. It's easy, no thinking involved. Right up your alley." The short creature smiled that blinding white smile at him, his eyes glowing that eerie yellow.

Shoulders tense, Jake stepped over the railroad tracks; he needed some distance between himself and this lunatic. "I don't want no part of your crazy game."

The demon made a tsking noise. "Oh, Jake, you're gonna hurt my feelings. What I need you to do for me is simple. Even _you_ can handle it," it assured him. "No Special Powers Survivor this time either. In fact, no bloodshed is even required."

Jake suppressed his nerves and fought his instincts to run like hell. He knew it wouldn't get him anywhere. Just like his skepticism wasn't going to help him right now. If he wanted to return to his old life, he needed to listen to the supernatural being in front of him. He was trapped in this game. He'd been right about that much back in Cold Oak. "Okay, fine," he said cautiously. "What's this so called simple task?"

Yellow eyes glowing again, the demon smirked. Azazel was its name. At least that's what it told Jake to call it. "This mission, should you choose to accept it—and I think you will if you know what's good for you…scratch that, make that good for your _family_—is simple. Cross the railroad tracks, enter that there cemetery right down this road and open the gate. Big building, dead center, can't miss it."

Azazel paused, entirely for effect, straining Jake's taut nerves. He waited for the other shoe to fall.

"Do that, and you're free," the demon said. "Free to return to your old job, although by now you're listed as AWOL, so it might be hard to explain how you ended up halfway around the world. But you can always go back to your lovely mother and sister, who I'm sure won't care how you got there."

"But why?" Jake had already killed for this creature and he wasn't about to commit to anything. It couldn't be trusted.

Azazel gave an indifferent, one-shouldered shrug. "Let's just call it the price you pay for playing. And make no mistake, it's just like the lottery, you gotta play to win." The demon laughed softly to itself.

Jake wasn't in the least bit amused but the yellow eyed thing sure thought it was the next Jay Leno or something. If it was one thing he'd learned in the service, he couldn't let people who weren't his commanding officer push him around. And he wasn't ready to concede that Azazel was just that to him, at least not yet. "If it's so simple, do it yourself."

"So, looks like Sammy wasn't the only one with the brains," the demon purred. "You're pretty much going to have to take my word for it when I say that I can't cross those tracks. But you can, and you will. You see, there are certain rules when it comes to these kinds of things and I can't break them—not yet anyway. That's where you come in, Jake. Now make me proud and say you'll do it."

Jake held his silence. He wasn't really following the flamboyant demon's monologue and if he kept his mouth shut, he was pretty sure it would keep on rambling.

"You follow the rules?" Jake couldn't help himself from asking. Setting up a bunch of people in an isolated area and letting them slug it out until only one was left standing did not make for a compulsive rule follower.

His words seemed to tickle the demon. Smiling widely again, Azazel explained, "I follow the rules I have to. And this rule? There's only one way around. It took a lot of planning to get it all in place, but it's all so clear now."

"Okay, fine. Let's say I do this for you. What's gonna happen when I open the gate?" Jake didn't see the sense in any of this and wondered if maybe he was dreaming this whole thing. He pinched the skin below his cuff at his wrist; it hurt. No dream.

The demon motioned Jake over. Crossing his arms, Jake held his ground--on the other side of the railroad track from where Azazel stood.

The demon sighed. "Let's see," he said. "When you open the gate, you're gonna make some demons very, very happy. Some of them might even come out to play but that's not the point. I can promise you that much." The demon's voice had deepened and although it was still smiling, it didn't seem so amused any more.

Jake tried to hold himself still even though his body was screaming to do something. Fight or flight. The only way Jake was going to get out of here is if he did whatever the demon wanted him to and then he wasn't sure he could go home. But he had to play along. At least for now. "What is the point?"

The demon waved a hand. "Details, details," he said. "You understand how need to know works, right?"

Jake shook his head. "I want to know the point."

The ever present smile hardened, those hated eyes glowing yellow again. "Here's the thing, Jake. You'd be doing me a favor. A really big favor. And pretty much doing yourself a favor, too. Let's call it karma. Cosmic karma."

"What do you mean, I'd be doing myself a favor?" The threats were getting old. Azazel had pretty much proven he could get to anyone at anytime. But Jake was anxious to move things along now.

Without being aware, Jake found himself walking over to the demon's side. He'd wanted to stay on the other side, out of reach. But his feet had other ideas. Almost like it was meant to be, no matter how much Jake didn't want it.

The demon put his hand on Jake's shoulder. "I know you feel guilty about what happened back there to Sammy. By opening that gate, you can bring him back."

Jake wavered again. Maybe he could make a run for it, hop the tracks. But his guilt was huge. The kid he'd killed had been a good fighter. And smart. Sam hadn't given in to Azazel. Unlike Jake. He was missing something here--something big. And it scared the crap out of him. "What's your angle?" he asked, and tried not to notice how his voice shook.

"Angle? Just that we can do each other a favor."

"You can't do _anything_ for me," Jake snapped.

Azazel raised his eyebrows. "I beg to differ," it said. "Not only do I know your sins and your guilt and the blood on your hands, but I know where Mommy and little Jalynn live. I know where Mommy works her two jobs and where Jalynn goes to school. I even know the route she takes home from school every day and the way she checks the mailbox to see if you've sent her anything. I'd hate to think of something happening to them. Wouldn't you?"

Jake felt his rage build. "Leave them out of this."

"No problem," the demon said. "As long as you help me out here. I promise it will be mutually beneficial."

Jake forced himself to simmer. "I still don't understand your angle."

Throwing his hands up, the demon donned his most innocent look. "Does it matter if we both get what we want out of this deal? Come on, Jake, be a pal."

He didn't want to be a party to anything else but really, he didn't have a choice. If he didn't do what Azazel wanted then the demon would kill his family. He had no choice.

The demon would have made one hell of a card player as he read Jake's face. He extended his hand, a small grin on his features. "Then it's a deal. Let's shake on it."

Reluctantly, Jake extended his hand in return, his long fingers held firmly by the smaller, but stronger, grip of the demons. The hands were cold, almost electric, and the feeling made Jake's skin tingle. His nose curled at the contact.

Azazel feigned a look of hurt. "Oh, don't be like that, Jake. You're the man for this job and I won't forget what you've done for me."

The demon was still making like the cheesy car salesman and Jake couldn't pull his hand away fast enough.

He was backed into the corner, and this demon had his only way out.

God help him if he took it.

No one would help him if he didn't.

-o-

The Impala was quiet as they bounced down US 18. Dean had wanted to take two vehicles but Bobby and Ellen had lobbied for staying together. It wasn't worth fighting over—it wasn't possible to have the person in the car that Dean wanted—so he let it go.

They had started the eight hour journey with Ellen riding shotgun and that brought back memories of driving back to Nebraska from Philly with Ellen, Jo and Sam. It had been quiet and uncomfortable with the silent wrath of Ellen in the passenger seat but being able to glance in the rearview mirror and see Jo and Sam shooting each other amused glances from time to time kept things bearable.

Now Ellen was crashed in the back seat and Bobby decided it was time to break the silence. Or in Bobby speak, nag. "You know, it might help to talk about it."

"What are you, Dr. Phil all of a sudden?" The feelings were too raw and the last thing Dean wanted to do was drag them out into the light of day and kick them around. It wouldn't change anything.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw a soft smile instead of the scowl he expected to find. "Did I ever tell you about the first time I met you two boys?" Bobby didn't wait for Dean's response, plowing ahead. "Your daddy showed up on my doorstep, wanted to know how to melt down silver. You were this quiet little boy, didn't reach much higher than your daddy's knee. He had Sam in his arms, wrapped so completely in a blanket that I couldn't see him. Tiny little thing. He didn't make a sound either. You two were the spookiest kids I'd ever been around. Of course that didn't last long…you were both chattering non-stop the next time I saw you."

Dean barely remembered those days. His dad said it took him more than six months to talk after his mom died, and that was only because Sammy was going to get burned trying to pull himself up by the oven door…while the stove and oven were both on. Reckless kid. Always doing things, knowing full well that Dean would be there to protect him. Except when he really needed to, then he hadn't done his job.

He didn't want to discuss Sam, not now, but Dean was pulled back into his memories, too. "He sure was a motor-mouth. Took him a while to start talking, but when he did, he never shut up."

Bobby smirked. "I always pegged you for the chatter-box. After that first time, it was like you were always on. Show time. Never slowed down, never stopped talking. Sam was different. Shy. You were full speed ahead, but he always wanted to know why something was done a certain way or what something meant. You two balanced each other out well that way. Although no one got Johnny's goat like your brother did. Pretty much from the first he had a way of aggravatin' your daddy."

Drawn in by the quiet warmth of Bobby's words, Dean cast his mind back to visits with Uncle Bobby. He remembered trying to keep Sammy out of the way, but his brother had a way of finding trouble. And Sam did know how to yank their dad's chain, and although it bugged the hell out of Dean, he was never convinced that Sam did it on purpose. Sam was just being Sam. "I remember that time Sam decided to clean Dad's revolver. He did everything perfect…but he forgot to unload it first. I thought Dad was gonna explode."

A chuckle escaped Bobby. "We're just lucky the gun didn't explode. Poor kid was a wreck, felt awful he'd screwed up."

"Yeah, Sam sure knew how to make a mess of things but he hated it when he did." His brother had already been more sensitive. Dean was sensitive to criticism from their dad and that was about it. Sam was a nervous wreck about everything—doing well in school, fitting in, being a good brother and son. Damn kid was lucky he never gave himself an ulcer.

"Remember that time he talked you into trapping that rabbit so I wouldn't kill it for eating up my garden? Before you could get the little sucker I'd had enough and got my rifle. Sam threw himself in front of the rabbit…thought your daddy was gonna have a coronary right there and then. That was the one time I saw Johnny raise a hand to him. Sam looked so sad that I couldn't kill the blasted thing. Instead you taught him to talk like Elmer Fudd and for days all I heard was 'that rascally wabbit.'" Both men laughed at the memory although maybe Dean's eyes filled a little. Sam never wanted to kill anything living. Hunting as a lifestyle sure had been hard on his little brother.

Bobby's laughter quickly bubbled to a stop. "I didn't always agree with how Johnny raised you boys but for the most part he was decent. It wasn't until after you quit school though that I began to have my doubts. He hauled you kids all over the place and you took to it like candy but Sam just wanted to put down roots." Bobby paused, his face creased with sadness and regret. "I suppose I oughta have minded my own business but the damn idgit grounded your brother for wanting to stay with Pastor Jim until the semester ended and then he yelled at you for sticking up for Sam. He had the nerve to tell Sam he was shirking his responsibilities. A fourteen year old! I told Johnny to get the hell off my property, not to come back until he figured out what being responsible meant. And that was the last time I talked to him. No one held a grudge like your daddy."

"I didn't know you two argued about me and Sam," Dean said, pretty much awed by Bobby's story. His dad had been a hard man to go nose to nose with although it shouldn't have surprised Dean since the man in the passenger seat never held back from speaking his mind. Come to think of it, neither had Sammy. His brother didn't have a problem going toe to toe with the old man either.

Bobby shrugged before the fingers on his right hand reached up to smooth the bill of his faded baseball cap. "I always loved you and Sam like you were my own family. I never really had a chance." Dean kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead of him. Now was not the time to get maudlin. If he let himself, he'd circle right around and into the drain, losing himself.

But Bobby wasn't done yet. "I know you feel like you failed Sam. But we're doing the right thing now. We can make his death mean something."

Swallowing hard past the lump in his throat, Dean forced his eyes open as wide as possible to keep the tears at bay. He wanted to believe Bobby, that stopping the demon would somehow honor Sam. Dean knew Sam wanted to put an end to this misery but without his brother at his side, he wasn't sure he could pull this off. "Do you think we'll survive this shoot out at the O.K. Corral?"

Shaking his head _no_, there was still a smile in Bobby's voice as he answered, "No, I can't say that we will. But we're going to Wyoming, boy, not Arizona. If you don't know the difference, we really don't have much hope here."

Gallows humor. It was something Dean could get behind, especially because he knew in his heart that this would be his last mission.

After all, after everything that had happened, after losing his mom, his dad, _Sam_, going out in a blaze of glory didn't seem so bad. He had just always thought Sammy would be at his side when it happened.


	4. Chapter 4

PART FOUR

Bobby thought talking about Sam would somehow give him and Dean a little pick-me-up. Like a good shot of whiskey or a kick in the ass. Sort of a non-football version of 'Let's win one for the Gipper'. It was the best Bobby had to offer at this point. After all, what kind of pick-me-up was there for a guy who was possibly staring down a demonic insurrection in the wake of his brother's death?

Brother's _murder_.

Bobby swallowed hard and gave the younger man a look. Dean's face was as impassive as ever and melancholy lodged in Bobby's throat like reflux.

The sky was clear and that should have augured well for their mission but Bobby's nerves were stretched so taut that it didn't make much difference. Good visibility probably wouldn't mean much of anything in face of what they were about to undertake. True, he didn't know for sure, but he'd been around long enough to know that it wasn't good.

Probably end of the world not good.

Which was why he had to put this behind him. Not that Sam's death didn't hurt like hell, not that Dean's grief didn't make him ache, but because there was a bigger picture.

Licking his lips, he steeled himself, trying to keep his steps as light as he could. They'd left the Impala back a ways, partly because the road had grown rough and partly for the element of surprise. For all that he'd put together, he still wasn't quite sure what they'd walk into and it was better to enter by foot than charging in with the roaring engine of the car.

Alert and anxious, he inched his finger away from the sawn-off held in his right hand. The last thing he needed to do was blow off his toe like some wet behind the ears kid. And at the rate he was going, he couldn't be sure that was an unlikely scenario.

Ellen, pistol drawn, jumped as a leaf blew from an oak tree, narrowly missing her head. She covered her heart with a hand and Bobby watched her silently move her lips, trying to calm down. Bobby knew how she felt.

Only Dean seemed unaffected by the tension.

The younger man carried the Taurus in a light grip, his eyes scanning ahead, moving up to take point as the three hunters picked their way cautiously through the cemetery by the light of the moon and stars.

So far, there'd been nothing. No weird signs, no demonic activity. Just the cold and empty silence of an abandoned graveyard.

"That's far enough," a disembodied voice boomed from behind them.

Startled, Bobby spun, finger primed on the trigger once again. It didn't seem possible that someone had gotten the drop on them--they'd been too cautious. Sure, Bobby wasn't in his prime anymore, but he could still move in stealth mode with the best of them. He hadn't survived this long as a hunter to be caught by some run of the mill human.

No, this had to be more of that supernatural mojo at work.

Ellen and Bobby had fallen still in front of him, guns ready and eyes darting around in the darkness.

Then, Bobby saw a form--to the left in front of them, standing near the crypt. A tall, muscular black man—really more kid than man—walked up to them, unarmed. He had on army fatigues and a black long sleeved shirt and moved like someone who had spent some time in the armed services.

Ellen was stiff, her gun trained ahead. For his part, Dean stood straight, tensing his shoulders and lifting his chin as he brought his weapon to bear on the kid, pointing the barrel directly at his head.

Then Bobby recognized him. He'd only seen his retreating form at Cold Oak, but the long lanky figure was one he'd chased for a good half a mile before he'd realized it was futile. Quitting the chase had been hard, because revenge was something understood--and justice was something Bobby believed in. He didn't let murderers go.

Especially ones who killed Sam Winchester.

Dean's voice was soft, but Bobby knew exactly what he said. Dean released his safety, gritted his teeth, and whispered, "This one's for you, Sam."

Normally Bobby might protest. Justice didn't have to equate vigilante execution in his mind, but he'd seen the look on Sam's face as he fell to his knees. There was time for sympathy, but Bobby wasn't sure this was it.

But before Dean could pull the trigger, the kid threw up his hand and Bobby found himself unable to move--not even to twitch an eyelid.

It was his instinct to panic, but he didn't even have that luxury. Straining his eyes, he sought Dean and Ellen, and he could see them similarly subdued, stiffed and immobile by an invisible force.

_Put down your weapons._

Hell, no, there was absolutely no way Bobby was going to give up his shotgun without a fight. He didn't give up his gun for no one, no how.

So it was more than a little maddening when he found himself bending over, tossing the sawn-off a good five feet away from his body.

_You can relax now. It's going to be okay._

The deep voice echoed directly in his mind. Bobby straightened up without thinking about it only to have his knees threaten to dump him on his ass.

_Not that relaxed. Guess I've got to be careful what I ask for here. This is all new to me._

For as creepy as mind control was, this kid wasn't particularly scary. Of course, the whole 'I can make you do anything I want and you can't stop me' powers he had working for him were a pretty compelling case to the contrary.

Ellen and Dean had both been forced to drop their weapons and the younger hunter was the only one who seemed to be actively fighting the mind control, his face glistening with sweat, muscles bunching and twitching with the effort.

_Please, don't fight me. I have to make this right. Not just for me, but for all of us. Don't you understand?_

Dean found his voice first. "You're one of them, aren't you? Like Sam and Ava and Andy. One of the kids chosen by the demon."

Cold steel ran through Dean's voice; the anger was simmering just below the surface and Bobby knew it wouldn't take much for Dean to go postal--one crack in the force field, and Dean would be ready to go.

Jake shrugged his powerful shoulders before licking his lips with nervous intensity. "I guess so," he said.

Dean's expression wavered with pure rage. "So how did you get so powerful? You embrace your dark side like Max Miller?"

"I don't know any Max Miller," the kid said. "And I don't know how this happened. It just started, like a switch got flipped in my head. But now that I can do more stuff, I guess I ought to put it to good use. You guys just hang out here while I take care of this gate. I'll let you go as soon as I'm done."

As unnerving as the rest had been, that triggered Bobby's panic in earnest. A Devil's gate. It made sense. Why else would the area be protected by such powerful demon repellents? Samuel Colt didn't want demons to open a door to Hell. The consequences could be devastating.

Struggling, Bobby found his voice. "No, son, you don't want to go opening anything." He spoke softly, relieved his voice wasn't locked up tight like his body.

The kid, young man, looked scared out of his mind with wide, staring eyes glinting in the moonlight.

Ellen's maternal voice rang out next. "No, honey, you don't want to go and do that. Let's just sit down and talk about it."

Dean took an alternate method in reasoning. "You can't fix what you've done this way. I mean, come on, cold-blooded murder? Stabbing a guy in the _back_? Nothing you do here will fix that."

The young man ignored their pitches as he walked toward a stand of tall monuments and headstones that glowed brightly in the strong moonlight. The kid was on a mission and wouldn't be dissuaded--no matter what.

An audible gasp was heard, probably from Bobby himself, as the kid plunged his hand into a deep pocket in his fatigues and withdrew The Colt.

They'd all wondered where it'd ended up. It'd disappeared with John at the hospital, and though the boys hadn't wanted to talk about it, Bobby had suspected John's death and the sudden disappearance had been linked. So however the kid had ended up with it, Bobby knew it couldn't be good. Whatever intel this kid thought he was working on wasn't going to be in any of their best interest.

It was hard to see from his vantage point and Bobby's feet were still firmly planted on the ground but it looked like the kid inserted the barrel of the colt into the surface of the mausoleum. There must have been a hole in the smooth granite face because the colt twisted in a circle, making a loud clicking noise, like tumblers being cleared on a safe.

A large ominous thump echoed off the headstones and the kid stilled, standing completely motionless in front of the looming burial vault, almost expectantly.

Bobby's legs unlocked but before he could even take a step, the ground rolled beneath his feet and he was thrown to the ground. Ellen and Dean copied his actions, all of them raising their arms to protect their heads as a large bolt of lightning streaked through the clear sky.

A large crash accompanied the light show and the mausoleum door burst open, throwing the kid roughly to the side.

The force of it hit Bobby squarely, rolling him on the ground. His ears rang and his vision blanked out as he was overwhelmed by a loud rushing noise. The tornado of sound gushed over him, and he went head over heels again.

When he finally stopped, he blinked, working to clear his head. It took a minute before the hazy shapes came into focus. He saw gravestones first then finally movement--Dean.

The younger man was to his right, a few feet in front of him. Dean had managed to roll to his feet, shaking his head. His eyes narrowed and Bobby followed his stare to land on the kid who was on all fours, head hung low on his shoulders, trying to get his bearings.

The calculating gleam in those bright green eyes gave Dean away: He wanted to off this kid for killing Sam. And to Bobby's way of thinking, it wasn't just that the kid killed Sam, it was that he knifed Dean's little brother in the back. When Sam had been defenseless and unprepared.

It was enough to keep Bobby where he was, even though he knew Dean's intent. Even if he knew it wouldn't bring Dean the solace he hoped it would. Even if it might be something Dean lived to regret.

With a set jaw, Dean lurched toward the hulking mausoleum on his way to finish the kid and Bobby couldn't help himself. He silently cheered.

The swirling air bumped into Bobby again, slamming him back to the ground.

Then Bobby realized that it wasn't just air assaulting them, it was brightly glowing reds and oranges and yellows. Demons were fleeing the granite resting place. Charging through the gate. The gate to hell.

Pausing as he stalked toward the kid, Dean glared at the gate. The indecision was apparent to Bobby as Dean stood as still as one of the headstones, contemplating his choices.

Kill the kid.

Close the gate.

Avenge Sam's death.

Stop all hell from breaking loose.

Ellen came up behind Bobby, maneuvering her shoulder under Bobby, and helping him to his feet. They moved together with an unsteady gait, moving as fast as they could.

Before they got more than two feet, Dean had made up his mind.

Bobby saw him slam against the granite slab, pressing his shoulder into it with all his might. Turning to them impatiently, Dean screamed against the stream of escaping demons, "Help me close it!"

Bobby thought he heard Dean muttering something about Sam and saving the world under his breath and he didn't sound happy about it but Bobby could only marshal enough energy to put toward shutting the unholy gate. The three of them heaved and strained but their combined weight wasn't making much headway.

_There_.

The voice was back but it coincided with the gate crashing shut. Dean yanked Ellen's hands back before they were crushed in the doorway.

Something winged off Bobby's shoulder, interrupting his breather. Bright colors continued to swirl around them, violently bouncing off everything in their path like pinballs launched by spring loaded plungers thudding off flippers.

"I'm so happy you could stop by, boys and girls." Bobby whirled around, ducking between the frenzied demons lucky enough to have escaped the hatch. Standing in front of him, unruffled by the activity, was a shorter man with a pleasant face…and glowing yellow eyes.

This was John's demon. The one he'd chased all his life. The one who had taken Mary and Sam. Azazel.

The lore on him was sparse, and Bobby had told John everything he'd learned. He was among the higher ranks of hell, and was thought to be close to Lucifer.

Before Bobby could remember anything else, he was launched through the air without warning, crashing into Ellen midflight, both of them tumbling down to the hard ground in a tangle of elbows and knees.

Dean landed not far from them, sprawled on his back in the night damp grass, stunned from his flight.

"Here's Johnny!" the demon roared, eyes rolled up with psychotic energy in a dead on impression of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. The face relaxed into what would have been a disarming smile if it had been a person. Rolling up the sleeves of the light blue cotton work shirt, the demon gestured to the commotion around him. "First I want to thank my friend Jake for doing such a superb job with the gate. And taking care of all those Survivor wannebees. I guess you could say none of this would have been possible without him. A round of applause for Jake. Who else do I need to thank?"

The demon bypassed Bobby and Ellen, walking over to the downed Winchester with long, fluid steps, brown hair untouched by the whirling wind. "I guess I should thank you, Dean, for dropping in on this little party. Although you could say it's too little, too late. Seems to be a common Winchester theme."

Dean gasped, struggling to his knees. "You don't know jack…"

The younger hunter grabbed at his throat, his voice choked out along with his air.

Grinning, the demon put his hands on his slim hips. "Actually, I think I do. And I know John. And Sam. And Mary. Would you like me to go on?"

Despite the darkness, Bobby thought he could see Dean's face flushed a bright red. The younger man continued to claw and struggle and Bobby rolled to his feet, bent on aiding him.

Dean's hands dropped from his throat but before Bobby could get to him, the yellow eyed demon was tossing the younger hunter into the air. Arms and legs cart wheeled wildly before Dean collided with the solid trunk of an oak tree, what little air he had left whooshing out of him in a pained grunt.

Azazel was in firm control of the situation and for the second time, Bobby was helpless to save those who mattered most. He'd promised himself after Sam's death that he'd take care of Dean, no matter what.

He surged against his invisible bonds, but nothing happened. Straining and sweating, there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could do to save Dean. Just like there was nothing he could do to save Sam. To save John.

But damn it. This time he'd die trying.

-o-

He woke up to the sound of pounding surf in his ears. Rolling on to his back, he sat up, expecting to find sand under his hands. Instead grass, slick and damp, met his fingertips. And pain flared along all his nerve endings.

His eyes scanned the area, searching for some sort of clue as to where he was and how he got there. The moon and the stars dominated the sky, the air crisp and clean, a black wrought iron fence penning him in.

His low back ached with an intensity that stole his breath. His shoulder twinged as he tried to reach behind him and he aborted the attempt to touch the deep pain in his back, settling for rubbed absently at the abused joint.

He caught sight of some headstones and realized he was in a cemetery. But why and how did he get there? And most important, where was his brother?

A cacophony of voices made his head ache even though they were in the distance.

Bracing against the pain, he pushed to his feet. His lungs stuttered in his chest, the art of breathing temporarily forgotten. Panic seized him for a moment but he fought to suck air in and the anxiety eased.

There was a freshness about the act of breathing that made him pause. Breathing was supposed to be easy, not a struggle. And thinking shouldn't be involved.

Something was off here.

Something was wrong.

Something was wrong with _him_.

Tingling in the extremities almost set off a panic attack and it was a struggle to bring his respiratory system under control. Wrung out and staggering on weak coltish legs, memories pummeled his brain.

The yellow eyed demon and the other 'special kids' in Cold Oak.

Andy dead, ripped to shreds. Innocent and harmless to the end. He'd been murdered.

Seeing Ava's evil revealed. Realizing how powerful she was, how much she'd been through. How many people she'd killed. She'd been a secretary, engaged, funny, _normal_. Then she'd been _gone_ in more ways than one.

Trying to reason with Jake. Failing.

Fighting with Jake. Winning.

_Dean_.

His brother had come for him. Everything was going to be okay...

A sharp pain in his back replaced by cold numbness. Gray vision giving way to black.

Lungs burning as they ceased to work.

Dead.

Cold horror washed over him.

Sam had died at the hands of Jake as surely as Ava had killed the other kids. He'd turned his back and Jake had punished him for it. He'd been dead--cold and blue and _dead._

So why was he breathing now?

Head throbbing, Sam staggered forward toward the noise. The wind shaking the leaves on the trees made him jump. He couldn't think.

A sharp cry ahead of him.

Dean.

More than that. Something in his voice. Something in the sharpness of his cry.

His brother was in pain.

Pushing forward, ricocheting off trees and stumbling against decaying grave markers, Sam followed the noise.

Sam needed to get to Dean. His brother would help him. Dean always took care of him, ever since he was a baby.

Dean was in pain and needed him.

And that was a mission Sam could not fail at.

-o-

Azazel paced back and forth in front of Dean, a grin so wide the Cheshire Cat would have been envious. "Dean, you really should be thanking me. After all I've done for you, a little gratitude wouldn't be amiss."

Although his ass was planted on the ground at the base of the tree and his back was leaning up against the bark uncomfortably, held by the demon's powers, Dean still had the use of his voice and he couldn't keep the incredulous note out of it, "Really? I should be _thanking_ you? For what? Wiping out my whole family?"

The left eyebrow of the demon lifted artfully as he stopped his pacing over the roughshod ground and gazed deeply into Dean's eyes. "Your whole family. Isn't that a bit of an overstatement on your part?"

The demon was enjoying this way too much. It was obvious that Dean couldn't get away and here the supernatural creature was taunting him, like a kid with a magnifying glass in the sunshine frying ants on a sidewalk. "You weren't content to take away my parents, you had to go and take Sam, too."

The bitterness flew from Dean's lips along with spittle. It was aggravating the way he was at the mercy of this demonic megalomaniac.

"Oh, I didn't take Sam. I just borrowed him for a little while. See for yourself," the demon said spreading his arms wide.

From behind the dark haired meatsuit, Dean could see something stumbling toward the demon's little stage.

Not something.

Someone.

Someone in mud coated jeans and a tan jacket with brown disheveled hair.

A certain someone Dean had cradled in his arms, feeling the blood soak his hands, holding up the boneless body as he exhaled his last raspy breath in Dean's ear.

Sam.

Moisture flooded Dean's eyes and he furiously blinked to clear them. The invisible restraints holding him in place lifted and Dean slowly climbed to his feet, afraid Sam was a mirage.

Any doubts Dean had that this was truly his brother, back from the dead, disappeared the closer the figure with the shambling gait got to him.

He recognized Sam's too long hair, including the uneven hank hanging in his eyes, desperately in need of a cut. A few more steps closer and he saw the mole on Sam's left cheek and the indentations where his dimples were although the expression on his face was as far from smiling as he could get.

The kid looked disoriented, eyes flitting from side to side. Panicky.

A voice chimed in from his right side. "Never fear, Dean-o, Sammy's here. Kind of sounds like the Rat Pack. We just need to add Frank and Joey and maybe Peter…oh, and what was that hot chick's name? The one with the great gams? Angie. We need an Angie."

Filtering out the demon's babble, Dean concentrated on his brother. There was no doubt that Dean was staring at Sam but he wondered at his brother's mental state. Face slack, eyes wide and vacant, skin pale.

Dean's feet moved without his volition, pulling him closer to Sam. The demon cackled in his ear, "Look who decided to drop in. I don't think Sammy cared for his previous accommodations at all. Then again hell seems to put most people off. They can't eat or sleep. Or it drives them insane. I wonder what category Sam falls into. Sam!" the demon snapped his fingers. "Hmmm…the lights are on but nobody's home. I think he might be one fry short of a Happy Meal. One brick short of a full load. Oh, this is fun…I could go on all night."

Sam's feet had stopped moving, his body swaying in the wind. Dean was afraid he was going to collapse to the hard ground and he broke into a run. "Sammy?!"

Azazel's voice boomed, amusement fading, "Stop right there, boys. I think we need to slow this little reunion down a bit, don't you? The guest of honor, the true prodigal son, isn't looking so hot at the moment."

His forward movement ground to a halt a mere ten feet from his brother and Dean struggled against the bonds holding him immobile. Sam's eyes stopped panning the cemetery and landed on Dean's face, a tentative smile flexing the deep grooves next to Sam's mouth in a quiver. "Dean?"

His brother's voice trembled and he was shaking so hard, Dean thought he was going to fly apart in front of him. Dean ached to sprint forward and hug Sam but until the demon let loose his hold, he wasn't going anywhere.

"Awww, just look at 'em. They're so sweet. Don't they just bring a tear of joy to your eyes? Screw it. I can't stand in the way of something so touching." Dean didn't even have a chance to brace himself before he found himself airborne again, launched right toward Sam.

Sam didn't have time to even throw his arms out to defend himself before Dean collided with him, bowling him over, both brothers bouncing on to the packed dirt path below. Sam took the brunt of the collision, knocked flat on his back, Dean's torso resting heavily on his chest.

Levering himself on his skinned elbows, Dean found himself nose to nose with the brother he thought was gone for good. "Sammy?"

Those large, tilted, blue-green eyes gazed back at Dean with a myriad of emotions. Pain. Confusion. Hope.

Sam still had hope and that had to mean something.

Dean now had hope, content to have Sam back by his side. Literally by his side as he slid off his brother, watching the grimace of pain scrunch Sam's face up.

His own hand shaking from the intense emotions and sheer adrenaline pulsing through his body, Dean put his hand over Sam's heart. Felt the rise and fall of his breathing and the steady beat of Sam's strong heart.

His brother was back.

The wind intensified, pushing Sam's hair over his face, obscuring him from Dean's view. He barely registered the approaching footsteps until they we were upon him. "Like I said, touching. An episode of The Waltons couldn't have scripted the schmaltz any better than this. But all things must come to an end. Say goodnight, John-Boy."

He was sick and tired of taking flight but that didn't stop him from winging through the air to land roughly against the same Oak tree that had stopped him before. The wind was knocked from him and he saw stars, the pain in his back wrapping around to encompass his ribs.

"No!" Dean knew that voice, fraught with panic, and he wanted to go to his brother, show him that he was okay. His body had other thoughts and his fingers twitched but that was the only response he could summon at the moment.

Sam was pleading in the background, begging for Dean's life. "Please…leave him alone…you can't…I need…"

"You need, Sammy, my boy? What about what I need? And why should I save your worthless brother's life?" the demon taunted. If it was possible, Azazel was even more smug than before.

Dean's vision wasn't swimming as much at the moment so he focused on the tableau playing out before him. The demon facing off against his brother, arms akimbo, a gunslinger waiting for the draw. Sam had an arm bent around his waist and stood weaving in place. Reaching out a hand in supplication, Sam swallowed down as if fighting back nausea and beseeched the demon, "Please…don't kill him. I'll do whatever you want."

Cringing against the unyielding trunk, Dean wanted to cry out to Sam, to stop him from trying to make some sort of deal with Azazel. Behind the battleground, Dean spotted Ellen and Bobby and the look of absolute horror on their faces must have mirrored Dean's. How could Sam reason with a demon? Sure, Dean had tried to make a deal with the Crossroads Demon but that was different, Sam's life had been at stake.

Pressure increased against his ribcage and Dean realized Azazel was still pulling his Jedi mind trick routine. This time the life was being squeezed out of Dean and his little brother was bargaining the best he could under the circumstances.

Dean tried to remain quiet, he didn't want to be a distraction, but a whimper of pain escaped his lips. Sam's eyes, almost rolling with panic, turned away from the enemy to stare at Dean.

Azazel's hand rocketed forward, cracking into Sam's cheek. "I'm so sick of your pathetic little mewling. Show me what you're made of, Sammy. You wanna save your brother? Make me stop."

Sam's head rocked back under the force of the blow and he staggered back a few paces but he didn't fold. In fact the opposite happened. Sam's spine straightened and he stared down at the demon, disgust pulling his lips back. Dean could plainly make out the livid shape of a hand on his brother's right cheek but Sam ignored it, eyes narrowing.

Dean had seen this look a million times. Sam at his best—cool and totally focused and able to verbally tear apart anyone opposing him.

But this time the strategy had changed and Sam wasn't talking, he was _doing_.

Static filled the air and if Dean's hair had been longer, it would have been floating around his face. Sam's hair fanned out, his arms outstretched toward Azazel.

And, for the first time, the demon lost his smug expression.

Without further warning, energy blasted from Sam's hands, flattening the demon. Azazel, sprawled on the ground, writhed in agony. "Sam, my boy, think about this. We're practically family…argh!"

Energy buffeted the demon, a brilliant white-blue light cracking over his skin.

Dean's attention flipped back toward his brother. Sam's face was expressionless, even the lines of pain smoothed away.

It was Sam yet it wasn't. His brother always used reason before violence.

There was no reasoning now.

Sam moved closer to the demon with a purpose and certainty that belied his earlier state. The doe eyed, pained kid had packed up and in his place left this…man.

It was a bit like staring at his dad.

Breathing with ease, Dean pushed away from the tree. He wanted to stand by his brother but something held him back. The unchecked power unleashed on the demon gave him pause.

Sam's head was thrown back as the demon jerked from side to side, foam bubbling from its lips. "Rein it in, boy," the demon panted. "I've invited one more…person to the party…and I think you'll want to hear what he has to say." The effort to speak had cost the demon too much and his eyes rolled back into his head.

Hands lowering to his side, Sam cocked his head to the side, his impression of Lassie dead-on. The air was saturated with electricity but Dean sensed Sam was back in control of himself and moved to stand by his side.

Azazel flopped around on the ground in front of his feet and Dean derived a certain amount of pleasure from the sight.

The only thing preventing Dean from breaking into "We Are The Champions" was Sam. He wanted the demon to pay for everything it had done, but Dean wasn't comfortable with Sam doling out the justice.

The wind had completely died down and the demons that had busted through the gate were long gone.

The sound of boots crunching on gravel caught Dean's ears.

Dean glimpsed Sam's face, slack-jawed with wonder, and turned to see who was approaching.

Sound caught in Dean's throat but he forced it past his lips anyway. "Dad?"

John Winchester stood before them, tall and proud.

Dean's heart stuttered in his chest. He'd already gotten Sammy back. Maybe all three Winchesters would be hunting as a team again.

"Howdy, boys," John said, white teeth flashing in his tanned, healthy face. "It's been awhile."

Hope crashed and burned, leaving behind the taste of something souring in decay, as his dad's eyes promptly faded to black.

END


End file.
